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THE 

UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND  PROSE 

OF 

WALT  WHITMAN 


WHITMAN    AT    SEVENTY 

From  a  remarkably  lifelike  Gutekunst  proof  given  by  the  poet  to 
Mr.  Thomas  B.  Harned,  through  whose  courtesy  it  is  here  first 
reproduced. 


L^    ami 


THE       t^ 


'^■■■^* 


UNCOLLECTED    POETRY 

AND   PROSE  OF 

WALT  WHITMAN 

MUCH  OF  WHICH  HAS  BEEN 

BUT  RECENTLY  DISCOVERED 

WITH 

VARIOUS  EARLY  MANUSCRIPTS 

NOW  FIRST  PUBLISHED 
COLLECTED    AND    EDITED    BY 

EMORY    HOLL  O WAY 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  IN  ADELPHI  COLLEGE 


ILLUSTRATE  D 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES 

VOLUME 
ONE 


DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &   COMPANY 
i  9  2  I 


2,10V 

n 


COPYRIGHT,  I92 1,  BY 

EMORY  HOLLOWAY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED  AT  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y.,  U.  8.  A. 

First  Edition 


TO 
MY  MOTHER  AND   MY  WIFE 


A  vast  batch  left  to  oblivion. 

— Whitman 


PREFACE 

Since  19 14,  when  I  began  work  on  this  book,  I  have  often 
hoped  that  its  appearance  might  coincide  with  the  centennial  of 
the  poet's  birth,  and  that  it  might  thus  serve  as  my  stone  to  cast 
upon  his  cairn,  which,  I  knew,  would  then  swell  under  the  contri- 
butions of  many  hands.  But  the  World  War — strange  fulfil- 
ment of  the  prophecy  in  Whitman's  "Years  of  the  Modern" — 
taking  me  overseas  for  a  year,  delayed  the  completion  of  the 
work  by  so  much,  and  more.  Now  that  it  is  ready  to  print,  I 
trust  the  poet  will  not  find  the  peace  of  his  rest  diminished  that 
I  have  added  my  stone  to  his  grave.  And  yet  I  have  been 
warned  by  some  who  claim  special  information  in  the  matter 
that  Whitman  himself  would  hardly  approve  of  such  a  work  as 
this  that  I  have  done.  However  that  may  be,  Whitman  has  al- 
ready had  his  ample  say.  The  autobiographical  "Leaves  of  Grass" 
is,  at  least  for  those  who  have  the  clue  to  its  meaning,  his  best  in- 
terpretation; but  he  has  also  laid  a  shaping  hand  upon  the  bi- 
ographies of  Burroughs,  and  Bucke,  and  Traubel,  and  (through 
these  and  his  own  often-quoted  "Specimen  Days")  indirectly  upon 
all  others.  There  is  a  sphere  for  autobiography  and  another 
sphere  for  biography.  The  present  volumes,  though  in  no  sense 
authorized  by  Whitman,  are  indeed  far  more  autobiographical 
than  biographical.  In  fact,  they  are  autobiographical  in  the 
Whitman  sense  to  a  degree  greater  than  the  writings  which 
he  himself  preserved.  Somewhere — in  one  of  the  conversations 
with  Horace  Traubel — he  registered  an  objection  to  autobi- 
ographies which,  like  Rousseau's  "Confessions,"  are  deliberately 
planned  in  retrospect;  such  books  should  grow  unconsciously, 
he  said,  like  a  diary.  Now,  from  1855  on,  Whitman's  autobi- 
ography did  grow  in  this  manner,  keeping  tally  of  his  unfolding 
life;  that  was  the  principle  on  which  he  steadfastly  retained  in  it 
the  expression  of  certain  phases  of  his  life  even  when  he  had  hap- 
pily outgrown  the  passions  which  gave  them  meaning.  But  so  far 
as  the  real  evolution  of  the  man  who  published  the  First  Edition 
in  1855  is  concerned,  the  record  was  never  collected  in  any  ade- 
quate way  by  himself;  thus  his  autobiography  is  of  two  sorts, 


x  PREFACE 

part  retrospective  and  part  introspective.  I  have  compiled  these 
volumes  in  the  belief  that,  however  a  poet  may  elect  to  write 
about  himself,  the  serious  student  should  approach  his  life 
and  work  historically,  examining  both  in  accurate  relation  to 
the  age  in  which  he  lived  and  wrote. 

For  some  reason  Whitman  seems  to  have  preferred  that  his 
past,  particularly  the  period  before  1855  and  certain  later 
periods,  should  remain  secret  except  in  so  far  as  he  himself 
might  be  willing  to  illuminate  it.  That  was,  of  course,  the 
privilege  of  the  living  poet;  but  it  is  as  clearly  the  duty  of  the 
biographer  who  writes  long  after  his  death  to  seek  in  that  past, 
and  especially  in  the  literary  records  of  that  past,  the  true 
evolution  of  the  man  and  the  writer.  There  were  two  probable 
reasons  why  Whitman  thus  did  his  part  in  intensifying  the 
shadow  cast  upon  his  youth  and  young  manhood  by  the  dis- 
proportionately brilliant  light  of  those  minute  chronicles 
written  by  friends  who  had  known  him  only  in  old  age:  (a)  the 
early  work  of  his  pen  was  decidedly  inferior  and  uninspired, 
and  (b)  Whitman  found  it  congenial  and  convenient,  as  have 
most  prophets,  not  only  to  cast  in  his  lot  with  the  future,  but 
also  rather  sedulously  to  cultivate  the  obscurity  of  his  own  past. 
Moses  must  emerge  from  the  desert  and  Mahomet  from  his 
mountain  in  order  to  obtain  a  hearing;  Whitman  followed  a 
similar  prophetic  instinct  in  his  efforts  to  make  a  picturesque 
and  romantic  wilderness  of  his  own  early  environment.  To  that 
extent  his  autobiography  as  hitherto  known  is  unrealistic. 

But  it  is  more  strange  that  among  all  the  books  that  have  been 
written  about  Whitman  few  have  approached  the  study  of  his 
unique  genius  in  a  manner  and  with  a  method  at  once  sympa- 
thetic and  thorough.  The  great  bulk  of  the  writings  preserved 
in  this  sourcebook  appears  never  to  have  been  examined  by  Whit- 
man's biographers  at  all,  though  such  writings  were  obviously 
the  place  in  which  to  discover  the  crescent  poet,  philosopher,  and 
reformer.  None  of  his  biographers  seems  to  know  that  he  con- 
tributed to  the  Hempstead  Inquirer,  the  Long  Island  Democrat, 
or  the  Long  Island  Farmer.  I  cannot  discover  that  any  but  a 
few  essayists,  and  they  most  cursorily,  has  made  a  personal  ex- 
amination of  his  contributions,  chiefly  during  his  most  formative 
years,  to  the  Brooklyn  Eagle,  Times,  or  Union,  or  to  the  New 
Orleans  Crescent,  or  to  the  New  York  Tribune,  Evening  Post, 
or  Daily  Graphic.  It  would  seem  that  not  many  hours  have 
been  spent  in  searching  for  his  war  correspondence  in  the  New 


PREFACE  xi 

York  Times,  and  students  of  Whitman  have,  one  and  all,  been 
unaware  that  during  the  early  years  of  the  Civil  War  he 
contributed  to  the  Brooklyn  Standard  a  specially  copyrighted 
series  of  articles  on  local  history  that  would  itself  fill  a  fair- 
sized  volume.  Most  biographers  pay  their  passing  respects  to 
"Franklin  Evans,"  Whitman's  dime  novelette,  and  yet  the  tales 
"Little  Jane"  and  "The  Death  of  Wind-Foot"  have  always 
been  given  erroneous  dates  of  composition  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  they  lie  imbedded  in  this  much-talked-of,  but  little- 
read,  "tendency"  novel.  To  point  out  these  hiatuses  in  Whit- 
man biography  is  not  to  disparage  the  work  of  his  biographers 
nor  to  minimize  the  importance  of  the  light  they  have  cast  upon 
the  problems  involved.  Few,  perhaps  none,  of  them  have  had 
opportunities  for  examining  all  the  material  contained  in  these 
volumes.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  the  time  has  come  for  a 
more  thorough  study  of  Whitman  origins  than  any  yet  recorded. 
It  is  the  attempt  of  the  present  publication  to  assist  in  the  study 
of  Whitman  through  an  examination  of  his  earlier  and  less- 
known  writings,  unguided  by  any  preconceived  notions  of  his 
youth  drawn  from  his  own  maturer  work  or  from  the  familiar 
character  of  the  Camden  sage,  kindly  and  dignified  but  young 
no  longer.  Whatever  value  the  book  may  have  will  therefore 
appear,  not  when  tested  by  previous  conceptions  of  Whitman's 
growth  and  character,  but  when  employed  as  a  test  of  those 
conceptions.  If  the  work  that  I  have  done  corrects  old  errors 
or  if  it  substitutes  facts  for  old  guesses,  my  object  will,  in  either 
case,  have  been  accomplished. 

Specifically,  my  purpose  has  been  to  collect  all  of  Whitman's 
magazine  publications  not  found  in  his  "Complete  Prose"  and 
to  select  from  his  countless  newspaper  stories,  book  reviews, 
editorials,  criticisms  of  art,  music,  drama,  etc.,  such  as  have 
particular  biographical  or  literary  value,  with  such  others  as 
may  be  needed  fairly  to  indicate  his  thought  and  style  of  com- 
position in  each  stage  of  his  pre-poetic  career.  The  volumes 
contain  also  the  first  publication  of  a  considerable  number  of 
Whitman  manuscripts  which  possess  unusual  value  in  the  study 
of  the  genesis  of  his  poetry.  The  Whitman  notebooks  are  too 
numerous,  and  in  some  cases  too  illegible,  to  be  presented  here 
in  their  entirety;  I  have,  however,  included  without  omission 
or  abridgment  those  which  are  the  most  important  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  present  collection,  i.e.,  those  antedating 
1855,  and  from  the  later  ones  I  have  extracted  whatever  seemed 


xii  PREFACE 

to  throw  new  or  important  light  on  Whitman  problems,  bio- 
graphical or  critical.  The  complete  set  of  these  notebooks  is 
now  available  to  the  student  in  the  Library  of  Congress.  .  .  . 
The  only  Whitman  compositions  known  to  me  which,  though 
falling  under  the  principle  of  selection  just  stated,  are  not  here  in- 
cluded are  his  contributions  to  certain  newspapers,  like  the 
Brooklyn  Freeman,  of  which  diligent  search  has  as  yet  failed 
in  locating  any  files  or  numbers,  and  a  few  manuscripts  (such  as 
"An  American  Primer/*  "Diary  in  Canada,"  "Lafayette  in 
Brooklyn,"  and  "Criticism:  An  Essay")  which  have  been  pub- 
lished in  fairly  accessible  booklets  since  the  poet's  death. 

The  authenticity  of  the  writings  given  in  this  collection  is 
established  by  Whitman's  signature  (in  a  few  cases  that  of  his 
known  nom  de  plume),  by  the  direct  transmission  of  the  manu- 
scripts through  his  literary  executors  or  other  responsible  per- 
sons, or  by  such  other  evidence  as  is  set  forth  in  the  footnotes 
to  the  various  selections.  In  the  case  of  newspapers  for  which 
Whitman  was  the  sole  editorial  writer,  the  dates  that  bounded 
his  editorship  have  been  established  beyond  peradventure  and 
selections  made  only  from  issues  comprehended  between  those 
dates.  A  careful  study  has  also  been  made,  by  way  of  verifica- 
tion, of  all  the  internal  evidence  afforded  by  the  selections 
themselves. 

With  the  exception  of  the  excerpts  from  the  Brooklyn  Times, 
to  the  files  of  which  I  had  only  a  limited  access,  and  the  digest  of 
his  book  reviews  in  the  Eagle,  nearly  all  the  quotations  have  been 
made  without  any  abridgment  whatever.  Nothing  has  been 
"expurgated"  or  altered  in  its  meaning,  and  wherever  a  word  or 
a  passage  has  been  omitted  or  inserted  the  fact  has  been  indi- 
cated, omissions  by  asterisks  and  additions  by  brackets.  But 
it  has  seemed  to  me  that  it  would  be  unjust  to  Whitman  and 
inconvenient  for  the  reader  should  I  preserve  the  punctuation 
exactly  as  it  stands  in  the  columns  of  the  very  inexpert  journals 
of  half  a  century  and  more  ago,  or  that  I  should  retain  obvious 
typographical  errors.  Some  commas  which  were  not  only 
superfluous  but  obstructive  I  have  omitted,  and  in  a  few  cases 
I  have  modernized  other  marks  of  punctuation  where  to  do 
so  would  not  alter  the  meaning  except  to  make  it  clearer.  But, 
believing  that  punctuation  and  spelling  no  less  than  phrase- 
ology and  grammar  have  their  place  in  revealing  mental  pro- 
cesses, I  have  preserved  Whitman's  eccentricities  in  regard  to 
these  except  where  I  judged  that  they  would  be  particularly 


PREFACE  xiii 

baffling  or  irritating  to  the  modern  reader.  All  verse  and  manu- 
scripts have  been  given  in  faithful  copy  even  to  the  point  of 
retaining  meaningless  punctuation  and  fragments  of  sentences. 

To  facilitate  the  use  of  the  volumes  by  the  Whitman  student, 
I  have  added  numerous  footnotes,  giving  places  and  dates  of 
publication,  cross  references,  and  such  other  information  or  in- 
terpretation as  was  deemed  helpful  toward  an  understanding  of 
the  text.  In  a  few  cases  several  Whitman  utterances  on  a  given 
subject,  or  in  a  series,  have  been  placed  in  juxtaposition  (out 
of  their  strict  chronological  order)  that  one  might  throw  light 
upon  another.  The  manuscripts  which  antedate  the  1855 
edition  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  have  been  collated  both  with 
that  edition  and  with  the  current  authorized  edition.  Further- 
more, I  have  attempted,  in  two  introductory  essays,  to  evaluate 
all  this  heterogenous  material  and  to  render  it  accessible  to 
various  types  of  students,  such  as  psychologists,  genealogists, 
historians,  students  of  American  life,  manners,  journalism,  and 
literature,  and  students  of  Whitman  in  particular.  Space  has 
been  wanting,  of  course,  to  give  a  complete  story  of  Whitman's 
life  or  to  essay  a  comprehensive  estimate  of  his  work,  but  I 
have  tried  to  point  out  the  relation  of  this  new  material  to  the 
outstanding  problems  of  Whitman  biography  and  criticism. 
The  definitive  biography  of  Whitman,  when  it  comes  to  be 
written,  will  make  use  of  this  material  only  in  its  just  relation  to 
what  has  hitherto  been  known;  but  here  there  is  opportunity  to 
do  little  more  than  to  index  the  material  in  the  volumes  in  the 
form  of  two  essays. 

The  student  who  desires  to  examine  in  chronological  order  all 
the  early  writings  of  Whitman,  including  those  preserved  in  the 
"Complete  Prose,"  is  referred  also  to  the  bibliography  which,  in 
collaboration  with  Mr.  Henry  S.  Saunders,  I  prepared  to  accom- 
pany my  chapter  on  this  poet  in  the  "Cambridge  History  of 
American  Literature,"  Volume  II. 

In  collecting  material  for  such  a  sourcebook  as  this  I  have  nat- 
urally been  placed  under  manifold  obligations  both  to  libraries 
and  to  individuals.  Of  the  former  I  desire  to  thank,  in  particu- 
lar, the  Queens  Borough  Public  Library,  of  Jamaica,  Long 
Island,  which  repeatedly  opened  for  me  its  rare  files  of  the 
Long  Island  Democrat  and  of  the  Long  Island  Farmer;  the  Long 
Island  Historical  Society,  of  Brooklyn,  for  innumerable  courte- 
sies during  several  years,  including  the  supplying  of  files  of  the 
Brooklyn  Star,  Eagle,  Adverther,  Standard,  and  Patriot,  as  well 


xiv  PREFACE 

as  many  other  rare  and  serviceable  volumes;  the  Howard  Me- 
morial Library  and  the  Louisiana  State  Historical  Society,  of 
New  Orleans,  for  giving  me  access  to  their  files  of  the  New  Or- 
leans Crescent  and  for  other  services;  the  Brooklyn  Public 
Library,  the  Pratt  Library  (Brooklyn),  the  Columbia  Univer- 
sity Library,  the  library  of  Mr.  J.  Pierpont  Morgan,  the  Li- 
brary of  Congress,  and  especially  the  New  York  Public  Library, 
without  whose  united  assistance  I  could  never  have  brought  the 
present  work  to  a  state  of  even  approximate  completion.  My 
indebtedness  to  individuals  is  likewise  great.  Not  to  mention 
by  name  the  officials  of  the  institutions  just  enumerated,  I  have 
been  placed  under  obligation  by  the  following  persons:  Mr. 
William  Kernan  Dart,  of  New  Orleans,  who  kindly  permitted 
me  to  read  his  article  "Walt  Whitman  in  New  Orleans"  while 
it  was  still  in  manuscript  and  who  otherwise  assisted  me  in  iden- 
tifying some  of  Whitman's  contributions  to  the  Crescent;  Mr. 
Herbert  F.  Gunnison,  Mr.  William  H.  Sutton,  and  Mr.  A.  J. 
Aubrey,  of  the  Brooklyn  Eagle,  for  the  highly  appreciated  court- 
esy of  having  unsealed  for  me  many  volumes  of  their  journal 
which  were  not  to  be  duplicated  elsewhere,  and  for  other  ser- 
vices; Mr.  Richard  C.  Ellsworth  and  Mr.  George  R.  Rothwell, 
of  the  Brooklyn  Times,  for  a  similar  kindness;  Mrs.  M.  L.  Val- 
entine, of  New  York,  for  permission  to  examine  her  large  col- 
lection of  Whitman  manuscripts  and  to  make  use  of  one  of  them 
here;  Mr.  Louis  I.  Haber  and  Mr.  Alfred  L.  Goldsmith,  also 
of  New  York,  for  permission  to  publish  Whitman  manuscripts 
which  they  own;  Mr.  Frank  Hopkins,  Mr.  Max  Breslow,  Mr. 
Oscar  Lion,  the  late  Horace  Traubel,  Mrs.  Orvetta  Hall  Bren- 
ton,  Miss  Rica  Brenner,  Mr.  Edgar  P.  Holloway,  and  Miss 
Mary  Holloway,  for  varied  assistance;  Mrs.  Ina  M.  Seaborn,  of 
London,  Ontario,  who  placed  me  deeply  in  her  debt  by  allowing 
me  to  make  an  extended  examination  of  the  great  collection  of 
Whitmaniana  left  by  her  father,  Dr.  Richard  Maurice  Bucke; 
Mr.  Thomas  B.  Harned,  a  close  friend  and  now  the  only  sur- 
viving literary  executor  of  Whitman,  who  generously  placed  in 
my  hands,  for  use  here  and  elsewhere,  all  the  Whitman  material 
that  came  to  him  under  the  poet's  will,  including  the  extremely 
interesting  and  valuable  manuscript  notebooks  to  which  refer- 
ence has  already  been  made,  and  who  has  offered  me,  for  use  as 
a  frontispiece,  the  last  unreproduced  Gutekunst  photograph 
of  Whitman;  Mr.  Henry  S.  Saunders,  of  Toronto,  who  placed 
at  my  service  his  uncommonly  large  collection  of  Whitman 


PREFACE  xv 

writings  and  who  has  rendered  important  and  enthusiastic  as- 
sistance in  tracing  some  of  the  poet's  very  fugitive  publications; 
Mr.  G.  G.  Wyant  and  a  certain  anonymous  reader,  sometime 
connected  with  the  Yale  University  Press,  for  helpful  criticism; 
Professors  John  Erskine  and  Ashley  H.  Thorndike,  of  Columbia 
University;  Professor  Bliss  Perry,  of  Harvard;  and  Professor 
Killis  Campbell,  of  the  University  of  Texas,  and  my  colleague, 
Professor  Edgar  A.  Hall,  a  suggestion  from  the  first  of  whom 
was  largely  responsible  for  my  undertaking,  in  a  different  form, 
the  present  research.  Nor  can  one  publish  a  collection  similar 
to  this  without  being  made  the  debtor,  in  sundry  ways,  to 
that  genial  fraternity,  the  dealers  in  old  and  rare  books. 

To  no  one,  however,  am  I  so  much  indebted  as  to  my  wife, 
who  has  prepared  the  Subject  Index  and  who  by  years  of 
varied  assistance  and  encouraging  faith  has  lightened  a  la- 
borious task. 

Brooklyn,  1920. 


?+*-££^€AS*0*y 


POSTSCRIPTUM 

The  manuscript  of  the  present  work  was  already  in  the  hands 
of  its  publishers  when  a  selection  from  Whitman's  writings  in 
the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  entitled  "The  Gathering  of  the 
Forces,"  appeared.  Since  the  announcement  of  my  intention 
to  publish  the  results  of  the  research  offered  to  the  reader 
herewith  had  antedated  by  some  years  the  work  of  Messrs. 
Rodgers  and  Black,  there  was  no  occasion,  as  there  was  little 
opportunity,  for  me  to  alter  the  principle  on  which  I  had  in- 
cluded or  excluded  material.  A  very  few  minor  changes  have 
been  made,  however,  as  the  book  went  through  the  press. 
Wherever  possible  I  have  consulted  the  reader's  convenience  by 
referring  him  to  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  rather  than  to 
the  rare  files  of  the  Eagle,  for  some  material  not  reproduced 
here. 


£.# 


CONTENTS 
VOLUME  I 


PAGE 


Introductory  Essays 

I.     Biographical xxiii 

II.     Critical lxi 

Poems 

1838  Our  Future  Lot 1 

1839  Young  Grimes 2 

1839         Fame's  Vanity 4 

1839  My  Departure 5 

1840  The  Inca's  Daughter 8 

1840         The  Love  That  Is  Hereafter 9 

1840         We  All  Shall  Rest  at  Last 10 

1840         The  Spanish  Lady 12 

1840         The  End  of  All 13 

1840  The  Columbian's  Song 15 

1 841  The  Punishment  of  Pride 17 

1842  Ambition* 19 

1843  The  Death  of  the  Nature  Lover* 7 

1846         The  Play-Ground 21 

1846         Ode  to  Be  Sung  on  Fort  Greene 22 

1848!       New  Year's  Day,  1848 23 

1 849-50-)-  Isle  of  La  Belle  Riviere 24 

1850         The  House  of  Friends 25 

1850         Resurgemus 27 

1892         [On  Duluth,  Minn.]    (Probably  spurious)    .      .  30 

Shorter  Prose  Publications 

1838         Effects  of  Lightning 32 

1840         Sun-Down  Papers  [N0.5] 32 

*A  redaction  of  an  earlier  poem. 

fDate  of  composition.    Other  dates  are  those  of  publication. 

xvii 


XV111 


CONTENTS 


1840 
1840 
1840 
1840 
1 841 
1 841 
1 841 
j  841 
1842 
1842 
1842 
1842 
1842 
1844 
1844 

1845 
1845 

1845 
1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 
1846-48 

1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 

1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 
1846 


Sun-Down  Papers  [No.  6] ■  .     .  25 

[No.  7] 37 

[No.  8] 39 

[No.  9] 44 

[No.  9  bis] 46 

[No.  10] 48 

[Report  of  Walter  Whitman's  Speech]    ...  51 

Bervance;  or  Father  and  Son 52 

The  Tomb-Blossoms 60 

Boz  and  Democracy 67 

The  Last  of  the  Sacred  Army 72 

A  Legend  of  Life  and  Love 78 

The  Angel  of  Tears 83 

Eris;  A  Spirit  Record 86 

The  Little  Sleighers 90 

Tear  Down  and  Build  Over  Again     ....  92 

A  Dialogue 97 

Art-Singing  and  Heart-Singing 104 

Slavers  and  the  Slave  Trade 106 

Hurrah  for  Hanging ! 108 

"Motley's  Your  Only  Wear" no 

Something  About  the  Children  of  Early  Spring   .  113 

Ourselves  and  the  Eagle 114 

A  Pleasant  Morning 117 

Andrew  Jackson 117 

East  Long  Island 118 

"Home*"  Literature 121 

Morbid  Appetite  for  Money 123 

Criticism — New  Books 125 

[Extracts  from  Whitman's  Criticisms  of  Books 

and  Authors] 126 

Working- Women 137 

The  Old  Black  Widow 138 

Incidents  in  the  Life  of  a  World-Famed  Man    .  139 
Matters  Which  Were  Seen  and  Done  in  an  After- 
noon Ramble 141 

Education — Schools,  etc 144 

A  Fact-Romance  of  Long  Island 146 

A  Few  Words  to  the  Young  Men  of  Brooklyn  .  148 

"Important  Announcement" 149 

An  Incident  on  Long  Island  Forty  Years  Ago  .  149 


CONTENTS  xix 


PAGB 


1846  The  West 151 

1847  Why  Do  the  Theatres  Languish? 152 

1847         A  City  Fire 154 

1847         What  an  Idea! 156 

1847         Dramatic  Affairs  and  Actors 156 

1847         [The  Democratic  Spirit] 159 

1847         New  States;  Shall  They  Be  Slave  or  Free?  .      .  160 

1847         The  Ambition  to  "Make  a  Show"  in  Dress.     .  162 

1847         Anti-Democratic  Bearing  of  Scott's  Novels .      .  163 

1847         Ride  to  Coney  Island,  and  Clam  Bake  There    .  164 

1847         New  Light  and  Old 166 

1847         Philosophy  of  Ferries 168 

1847         American  Workingmen  versu s  Slavery     .      .      .  171 

1847         East  Long  Island  Correspondence  (Letter  I)     .  174 

1847  "       "  *  (Letter  II)    .  177 

1847  "       "  "  "  (Letter  III).  180 

1848  Excerpts  From  a  Traveller's  Note  Book 

Crossing  the  Alleghanies 181 

Western  Steamboats — The  Ohio      .     .     .  1 86 

Cincinnati  and  Louisville 189 

1848         Model  Artists 191 

1848         A  Question  of  Propriety 191 

1848         The  Habitants  of  Hotels 193 

1848         Hero  Presidents 195 

1848         Sketches  of  the  Sidewalks  and  Levees 

Peter  Funk,  Esq 199 

Miss  Dusky  Grisette 202 

Daggerdraw  Bowieknife,  Esq 205 

John  J.  Jinglebrain 208 

Timothy  Gouj  on,  V.O.N.0 211 

Patrick  McDray 213 

Samuel  Sensitive 216 

1848         Death  of  Mr.  Astor  of  New  York      .     .     .     .218 

1848         University  Studies 220 

1848         The  Old  Cathedral 221 

1848         A  Walk  About  Town 223 

1848         General  Taylor  at  the  Theatre 225 

1848         A  Night  at  the  Terpsichore  Ball 225 

1848         Fourierism 229 

1848         The  Shadow  and  the  Light  of  a  Young  Man's 

Soul 229 


xx  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

1850  Paragraph  Sketches  of  Brooklynites  (Beecher).  234 

1851  Something  About  Art  and  Brooklyn  Artists.      .  236 

1 85 1          A  Letter  from  Brooklyn 239 

1851         Art  and  Artists 241 

1 85 1         Letters  from  Paumanok  [No.  1] 247 

1 85 1               "          "            "          [No.  2] 250 

1851         A  Plea  for  Water 254 

1 85 1          Letters  from  Paumanok  [No.  3] 255 

1854         Sunday  Restrictions 259 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Whitman  at  Seventy Frontispiece 

The  first  reproduction  of  an  extremely  suc- 
cessful Gutekunst  proof. 

Facing  Page 

Whitman's  Earliest  Manuscript 84 

A  letter  of  1842,  now  in  the  possession  of  Mr. 
Thomas  B.  Harned. 

Pencil  Drawings  by  Whitman 194 

Found  in  a  notebook  of  the  Pfaffian  period. 


INTRODUCTION:   BIOGRAPHICAL 

i.    ANCESTRY  AND  EARLY  LIFE  (1819-1836) 

Our  knowledge  of  Whitman's  ancestry  comes  largely  from  the 
poet  himself.  The  blood  of  English,  Dutch,  and  Welsh  forbears 
blended  in  his  veins,  but  it  is  obvious  that  he  was  proudest  of 
his  Hollandic  stock.  In  his  historical  sketches  of  Brooklyn  and 
Long  Island1  he  has  much  to  say  in  praise  of  the  physical  sound- 
ness, the  cleanliness,  intelligence,  and  religion  of  the  Dutch  col- 
onists in  New  Amsterdam,2  but  very  little  to  say  about  the 
English.  Yet  if  the  common  sense,  the  sound  judgment,  the 
enterprise  and  patience,  the  slowness  of  movement  and  of 
thought,  and  the  religious  toleration  of  his  Dutch  (and  Quaker) 
forbears  were  all  to  appear  in  the  man  and  in  his  work,  hardly 
less  apparent  were  to  be  the  tenacity  of  purpose  and  the  mys- 
tical idealism  of  his  English  (New  England)  stock.  As  one 
reads  the  present  volumes,  these  two  ancestral  strains  will  be 
found  contending  together  for  the  mastery,  or  else,  in  moments 
of  greatest  achievement,  uniting  to  create  the  "Leaves  of 
Grass." 

Whitman's  maternal  grandfather,  Major  Cornelius  Van  Velsor, 
a  prosperous  farmer  at  Cold  Spring,  he  describes  as  "jovial,  red, 
stout,  with  sonorous  voice  and  characteristic  physiognomy,"3 
while  his  wife  is  pictured  as  being  "of  sweet,  sensible  character, 
housewifely  proclivities,  and  deeply  intuitive  and  spiritual."4 
It  is  pleasant  to  see  this  wholesome  couple  in  the  simple  country 
setting  of  the  ghost  story  which  Whitman,  as  editor  of  the 
Brooklyn  Eagle,  culls  for  his  readers  from  the  stores  of  family 
legend.5     Both  the  Major  and  his  sweet-tempered  wife  were 

^he  "  Brooklyniana,"  II,  pp.  222-321,  passim. 

*See  II,  pp.  5,  224-227,  300. 

•Walt  Whitman's  "Complete  Prose,"  1914,  p.  5.  Hereafter  this  volume  will  be 
referred  to  by  its  title  alone. 

•Quoted  from  John  Burroughs  in  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  6. 

6"  An  Incident  on  Long  Island  Forty  Years  Ago,"  I,  pp.  149-151. 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

of  the  Quaker  persuasion,  a  fact  which — chiefly  through  the 
poet's  mother — came  to  influence  his  own  character  and  writings. 
Major  Van  Velsor,  like  Walt's  father,  was  a  personal  friend  of 
Elias  Hicks,  whose  home  was  at  Jericho,1  not  far  from  Cold 
Spring;  and  any  anecdote  concerning  the  Quaker  leader  was 
carefully  preserved  by  Whitman.2  It  would  seem,  however, 
that  the  younger  Whitman  never  went  the  whole  way  with  the 
disciples  of  Fox;  he  did  not  believe,  for  instance,  that  the  doc- 
trine of  non-resistance  could  ever  dominate  the  lives  of  men.3 
But  he  was  at  times  powerfully  influenced  by  what  these  reli- 
gious mystics  call  the  "inner  light."4  He  even  interpreted  the 
Scriptures  so  much  in  the  manner  of  the  Friends  as  once  to 
conceive  of  the  spirit  which  inspires  his  own  poetry  as  a  rein- 
carnation of  the  soul  of  Jesus.5  To  him  "the  divine  Jew"  was 
the  supreme  character  of  the  ages,  but  unique  only  in  the  degree 
of  his  divinity.6  As  to  the  genuine  Quaker,  so  to  him  outward 
show  and  ceremonialism  meant  little,7  creed  and  dogma  no 
more.8  He  detested  the  doctrinal  bickering  of  the  sects,9 
since  to  him  religion  was  always  the  simple  spirit  of  reverence 
and  direct  communion  with  an  immanent  deity  that  it  was  to 
the  Hicksite  Quaker;  he  looked  upon  religion  as  a  mode  of  living 
rather  than  as  a  phase  of  life.10  If  we  may  judge  by  the  great 
number  of  his  allusions  and  quotations,  the  Bible11  was  one  of 
the  chief  sources  of  his  inspiration,  Shakespeare12  being  its  only 
close  rival.  Whatever  strictures  Whitman  may  have  laid 
upon  the  churches13  and  whatever  lapses  there  may  have  been 
in  his  conduct  from  the  idealism  of  his  best  moments,  one 
need  not  go  beyond  the  pages  of  the  present  work  to  be  con- 
vinced that  his  nature  was  spiritually  sensitive  to  a  high  degree14 
and  that  his  sympathy  and  love  for  his  fellow  men  was  pro- 
foundly Christian.15 

*See  II,  p.  311.        2See  II,  pp.  3-4;  also  "Complete  Prose,"  pp.  457-473. 

3See  I,  p.  197.        4See  I,  pp.  38,  42-44;  II,  pp.  66-67,  7X>  72>  80-81,  89. 

6See  II,  p.  74;  cf.  the  poem  "To  Him  That  Was  Crucified." 

•  See  II,  pp.  83,  91-92.        i  See  I,  p.  94-96,  145.        «See  I,  pp.  29  #•;  H>P-  J3> note  4- 

•See  I,  pp.  39  ff.        10See  I,  pp.  95-96,  186. 

u  Page  references  to  these  allusions  will  be  found  in  the  Subject  Index.  The  aim  of  the 
footnotes  in  this  Introduction  is  to  illustrate  and  substantiate  the  various  points  made, 
not  to  exhaust  the  evidence  contained  in  the  volumes. 

12  It  seems  that  Whitman  knew  a  good  deal  of  Shakespeare  by  heart.  See  II,  p.  318, 
and  Subject  Index. 

"See  II,  pp.  74,  84-85,  90.         l4See  II,  pp.  61,  69-70,  79-80,  82-83,  159,  163,  166. 

"See  I,  pp.  46-48,  II,  pp.  69-71,  74,  81,  84,  146-147,  160,  173. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xxv 

Whitman's  memory  for  dates  is  seldom  worthy  of  implicit 
trust,  but  when  he  says1  that  his  father  moved  the  family  to 
Brooklyn  in  May,  1823,  he  is  at  least  approximately  correct.2 
Except  for  summer  excursions  to  the  Island,  the  poet  spent  his 
boyhood  in  Brooklyn,  then  a  village  small  and  primitive 
enough3  for  his  curious  eyes  to  have  explored  all  its  picturesque 
corners4  and  to  have  been  familiar  with  all  its  leading  person- 
ages.5 As  a  sturdy  lad  of  six,  he  stood  in  line  among  his  school- 
fellows to  await  the  arrival  of  that  hero  of  the  Revolution  who 
was  by  chance  to  lay  upon  him  the  "sacred  hands"6  of  a 
patriot.7  This  act  of  Lafayette's  can  scarcely  be  said,  in  the 
light  of  the  original  story  (told  in  1857),8  to  have  had  any  refer- 
ence to  the  boy's  character  or  appearance;  nevertheless  it  seems 
to  have  lingered  in  the  latter's  mind  with  the  significance  of  a 
prophetic  symbol.  At  any  rate,  it  was  several  times  repeated 
by  him9 — not,  it  must  be  admitted,  without  a  natural  increment 
of  sentimental  detail.  We  next  see  the  idle  and  mischievous 
boy10  throwing  brickbats  into  the  mulberry  trees  in  Nassau 
Street,  unafraid  of  being  driven  away  by  the  good-natured 
ladies  who  owned  them  and  unmindful  how  near  his  missiles 
might  fall  to  the  heads  of  unwary  pedestrians.11  And  doubtless 
he  was  with  the  rest  of  the  village  urchins  when  they  went, 
equipped  with  bent  pin  and  tow  string,  to  angle  for  "  killy-fish  " 
in  the  stagnant  marshes  of  the  Wallabout,  long  since  obliterated 
by  the  construction  of  the  City  Park.12 

On  Sundays  he  attended  the  Dutch  Reformed  Sunday  School 
in  the  old-fashionted,  gray  stone  church  on  Joralemon  Street13  as 
later  he  was  to  study  human  nature  from  his  vantage-point  in  the 
galleries  of  the  Sands  Street  Methodist  Church  during  the 
hey-day  of  the  old-time  revivals.14  The  fervour  with  which  the 
revival  hymns  were  sung  may  have  given  him  some  early  ideas 
of  the  power  of  song  to  fuse  the  sentiments  of  a  people.15  Whether 

I  See  II,  p.  86. 

2 Whitman's  references  to  this  date  vary  from  1822-3  to  1825.    The  earliest  record 
in  the  city  directory  (Spooner)  is  1825. 

3SeeII,p.  292  ff.         4Cy.I,  pp.  141-144, 168-171, 174  ff.;  II,  pp.  2-5, 222-32 1,/xttjj'w. 
6  See  I,  pp.  234-235,  II,  293-296.        eSee  II,  p.  288. 
7 See  II,  pp.  3,  256-257,  284-288;  cf.  I,  p.  77,  1 1 8.         «See  II,  p.  2-3. 
•See  infra,  note  7;  also  "Complete  Prose,"  pp.  9, 510-51 1,  and  "Lafayette  in  Brook- 
lyn," New  York,  1905. 
10 Cf.  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  465;  post,  II,  pp.  3,  255. 

II  See  II,  p.  295.       "  See  II,  p.  269.        13  See  II,  p.  262,  cf ' '  Complete  Prose,"  p.  10. 
"See  II,  p.  293.        15 Ibidem. 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

he  included  himself  among  the  third  of  the  young  apprentices 
and  mechanics  of  Brooklyn  who  "experienced  religion"  in  those 
revivals,1  we  do  not  know;  but  his  later  emotional  and  mystical 
experiences  render  such  a  supposition  tenable.2  In  any  case, 
he  remembered  the  beauty  of  the  girls  he  saw  there — the  more 
beautiful  to  him,  perhaps,  for  being  sensitive  to  spiritual  im- 
pressions. In  the  latter  half  of  his  life  Whitman  seldom  went  to 
church,  but  it  would  seem  that  he  had  no  deep  prejudice  against 
the  institution  when  he  was  younger.  He  was  on  good  terms 
with  the  ministers3  and  not  infrequently  surrendered  the 
editorial  columns  of  the  Eagle  for  long  reports  of  their  sermons,4 
and  as  editor  advised  the  building  of  more  houses  of  worship5 
and  recommended  attendance  upon  divine  service.6  At  times 
he  even  looked  upon  himself,  in  inspired  moments,  as  the 
founder  of  a  new  religion  or  cultus,7  though  not,  to  be  sure,  of 
an  institutionalized  church.8 

On  week  days  the  boy  attended  the  public  school  in  Sands 
Street,9  where,  however,  the  only  incident  that  impressed  him 
as  worthy  of  later  record  was  his  hearing  the  explosion  that 
wrecked  the  Frigate  Fulton   (June,  1829)  in  the  Navy  Yard 

^c  II,  p.  293. 

*If  so,  it  was  probably  not  the  type  of  conversion  in  which  a  sense  of  sin  predominates 
for  he  once  said  to  Horace  Traubel:  "I  never,  never  was  troubled  to  know  whether  I 
would  be  saved  or  lost:  what  was  that  to  me?"  ("With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden," 
III,  p.  494) 

'See  I,  p.  176,  pp.  255,  313.  Whitman  was  a  friend  of  Beecher,  whom  he  thought 
indebted  to  the  "Leaves  of  Grass."  ("With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  I,  pp.  137- 
138;  III,  passim;  also  post,  I,  pp.  234-235-) 

4 E.g.,  in  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  March  30,  November  23,  1846.  Whitman  also 
introduced  in  the  Eagle  (December  19, 1846)  a  column  called  "Sunday  Reading." 

•See  I,  p.  141.        *See  I,  pp.  221-222.         »See  II,  pp.  91-92.  "See  II,  pp.  66-67. 

•Most  of  Whitman's  prose  writings  betray  his  want  of  the  formal  and  disciplinary 
training  more  often  found  in  the  schoolroom  than  in  the  newspaper  office.  In  the 
1830*3  the  schools,  like  the  newspapers,  were,  of  course,  far  below  modern  standards. 
When  Whitman  studied  the  public  school  as  teacher  and  as  a  self-appointed  editorial 
inspector,  he  came  to  realize  how  poor  they  often  were.  Possibly  he  had  sensed  this  even 
as  a  pupil.  Apparently  he  had  not  made  much  use,  however,  of  what  educational 
opportunities  he  had  at  school.  A  granddaughter  of  his  Brooklyn  schoolmaster,  Miss 
Theodora  Goldsmith,  Lady  Principal  of  the  Adelphi  Academy,  writes  me:  "He  [Whit- 
man] was  a  boy  in  Sands  Street  school,  now  called  Public  School  No.  1,  some  time  during 
the  thirties.  My  grandfather,  Benjamin  Buel  Halleck,  was  a  teacher  for  ten  or  a  dozen 
years  in  that  school  and  for  a  part  of  the  time  principal  as  well.  He  remembered  Walt 
Whitman  as  a  big,  good-natured  lad,  clumsy  and  slovenly  in  appearance,  but  not  other- 
wise remarkable.  My  grandfather  was  surprised  when  Walt  proved,  long  afterwards, 
to  be  a  poet,  saying:  'We  need  never  be  discouraged  over  anyone.'"  Whitman  had  his 
own  method  of  self-education,  as  will  appear  in  this  essay  and  in  the  one  which  follows; 
but  he  always  exerted  as  much  influence  as  he  possessed  in  securing  a  higher  standard 
of  schools  for  others,  whether  secondary  or  higher,  in  city  or  country.  See  I,  pp.  1 44-146, 
a2o— 211;  II,  13-15. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xxvii 

close  by.1  A  few  days  later  he  followed,  boy-like,  the  funeral 
procession  of  an  officer  slain  on  the  Fulton^  only  to  have  his 
sensitive  nature  offended  when  the  band,  which  had  approached 
the  cemetery  with  all  the  impressive  solemnity  of  a  naval 
funeral,  marched  off  to  the  tune  of  a  lively  jig.2  Whitman 
seems  to  have  spent  much  of  his  time,  both  as  boy  and  as  man, 
in  loitering  in  burial  grounds,  whether  in  the  city  or  in  the 
country,  meditating  much,  as  from  the  first  he  was  to  write 
much,  on  the  problems  of  death  and  the  grave.8  It  would 
be  far  from  accurate,  however,  to  describe  him  as  a  moody  lad, 
obsessed  with  gloomy  thoughts.  It  was  doubtless  first-hand 
knowledge  that  he  had  of  the  village  entertainments  which 
he  recalled  in  the  "  Brooklyniana  "  sketches  thirty  years  later — 
the  balls,  parties,  sleigh  rides,  lectures,  concerts,  itinerant  shows, 
singing  schools,4  or  special  celebrations.5 

Either  Whitman  had  left  school  by  1830,  at  the  age  of  eleven,6 
or  else  he  began  work  as  office  and  errand  boy  to  "Lawyer 
Clarke"  during  a  vacation  period.  Neither  this  employment 
nor  that  in  the  office  of  the  unnamed  doctor  mentioned  by 
Bucke7  could  have  been  of  very  long  duration,  for  in  the 
next  summer  the  office  boy  was  to  become  printer's  devil 
for  the  Long  Island  Patriot^  in  the  office  of  which  he  was  to 
learn  from  that  venerable  printer,  William  Hartshorne,  "the 
craft  preservative  of  all  crafts."8  It  has  not  been  sufficiently 
emphasized  that  during  his  more  formative  years  Whitman's 
vantage  point  for  looking  at  life  was  nearly  always  a  newspaper 
office,9  except  when  it  was  some  favourite  spot  in  nature.     It 

»See  II,  p.  265.        ■  II,  p.  266. 

•See  I,  pp.  1-2,  4-5,  5-6,  7,  8-9,  9-10,  io-ii,  12, 13-15,  18,  20,  28-30,  32,  35-37, 
38-39,  60-67,  84-89,  97-103,  107-108,  218-219,  243-244;  II,  pp.  15-16,  22,  89,  148- 
150,  178-181,  also  "A  Brooklynite  in  N.  Y.  Churchyards,"  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle, 
July  7,  1846,  and  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  1 05-1 13. 

4See  II,  p.  257.        6See  II,  pp.  255-257.        6See  II,  p.  86. 

7In  the  "Chronological  Forecast"  which  Whitman  wrote  for  Bucke's  "Walt  Whit- 
man," p.  8. 

•See  II,  pp.  86,  245-249. 

•Whitman  is  known  to  have  been  directly  connected  with  the  press  in  the  following 
years,  as  well  as  to  have  written  for  many  other  newspapers  concerning  his  connection 
with  which  we  know  almost  nothing  (see  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  188):  I^ng  Island 
Patriot^  1831-32;  Long  Island  Star,  1832-33;  Long  Islander,  1838-39;  Long  Island 
Democrat,  1 839-1 841;  New  World,  1 841-42;  Aurora,  Sun,  Tattler,  1842;  Statesman,  1843; 
Democrat,  1844;  Brooklyn  Eagle,  1846-48;  New  Orleans  Crescent,  1848;  Brooklyn  Free- 
man, 1848-49;  Brooklyn  Daily  Advertizer,  1850,  1851;  New  York  Evening  Post,  1851; 
Brooklyn  Times,  1857-58  (?);  Brooklyn  Standard,  1861-62;  New  York  Herald,  1888.  This 
leaves  out  of  account  his  lifelong  habit  of  contributing  to  magazines.  For  a  list  of  these 
see  the  Whitman  bibliography  in  the  "  Cambridge  History  of  American  Literature," 
Vol.  II 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

was  fortunate  for  him  that  his  initiation  into  the  journalistic 
world  should  have  been  given  in  a  building  closely  associated 
with  Revolutionary  heroism1  and  under  the  influence  of  a  man 
so  able  to  fire  his  patriotic  imagination  with  stories  of  Wash- 
ington, Jefferson,  and  other  makers  of  the  nation.2  The  rever- 
ence thus  engendered  for  Washington,  in  particular,  was  in  the 
boy  and  young  man  little  less  than  religious.3  His  own  pro- 
phetic mission,  when  it  should  be  announced  to  him,  was  thus 
predestined  to  take  on  a  patriotic  significance.  With  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  Patriot,  Samuel  E.  Clements,4  a  "hawk-nosed 
Southerner,"  the  young  apprentice  was  on  good  terms  and  was 
taken  riding  by  him  on  Sundays.5  From  Clements  Whitman 
doubtless  received  his  first  ideas  of  the  South,  and  perhaps  from 
him  adopted  the  arguments  in  defence  of  slavery  which  he  was 
to  introduce  into  his  hastily  written  "Franklin  Evans"6  (1842). 
In  the  Patriot  office  he  also  became  acquainted  with  Henry  C. 
Murphy,  later  to  prove  influential  in  local  politics,  to  be  elected 
repeatedly  to  Congress,  and  to  be  sent  as  minister  to  The  Hague.7 
The  law  firm  of  Murphy,  Lott,  and  Vanderbilt,  it  is  said,  shaped 
very  largely  the  policies  of  the  Eagle;  it  may  have  been  there- 
fore that  Whitman's  early  friendship  for  Murphy  in  the  Patriot 
office  had  something  to  do  with  the  former's  selection,  in  1846, 
as  editor  of  the  Eagle.  His  loss  of  that  editorship,  in  any  case, 
was  due  to  his  opposition  to  the  conservative  Murphy  faction 
of  the  Democratic  Party8 — to  this  and  to  some  dissatisfaction 
on  the  part  of  the  Eagle's  proprietor,  Isaac  Van  Anden,  with 
Whitman's  irregularity  in  performing  his  editorial  duties. 
Though  Murphy  had  been  a  cause  of  his  losing  so  comfortable 
a  berth,9  Whitman  was  willing  to  write  a  very  laudatory  sketch 
of  the  politician  for  the  Brooklyn  Times  in  1857.10  Precisely 
what  Whitman  did  after  leaving  the  Patriot  is  not  clear.  "I 
was  at  Worthington's  in  the  summer  of '32,"  he  records.11    This 

xSee  II,  p.  247.        *See  II,  pp.  246-247. 

3See  I,  pp.  22,  72-78,  95,  118,  197,  246;  cf.  II,  pp.  2-3,  284-288. 

4See  I,  p.  234,  note,  II,  pp.  3-4,  9,  note  3,  86,  248-249,  294. 

"See  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  10.  eSee  II,  pp.  183-184. 

7See  I,  pp.  165;  II,  1-2,  5,  225. 

8 See  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  188;  post,  II,  p.  1  and  note.        ■ Ibidem. 

10See  II,  pp.  1-2,  5. 

According  to  the  testimony  of  a  friend  of  Van  Anden.  At  the  time  of  Whitman's  dis- 
missal, the  charge  was  made  and  denied  that  there  had  been  a  personal  encounter  in 
which  the  young  editor  had  kicked  a  prominent  political  personage  down  the  editorial 
stairs.  This  is  not  the  place  to  sift  the  evidence,  but  probably  a  difference  of  politics  was 
at  the  root  of  the  matter. 

11  See  II,  p.  86. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xxix 

Worthington  was  probably  another  printer,  and  perhaps  at  the 
time  postmaster  as  well.1  With  him,  however,  Whitman 
remained  only  a  few  months,  for  in  the  fall  he  went  to  work  as 
printer's  devil  on  Col.  Alden  Spooner's  Long  Island  Star,  a 
Whig  organ  published  weekly.2  He  was  still  doing  odd  jobs 
for  the  Star  when  his  family  returned  to  the  Island  to  live,  in 
1833.3  He  joined  the  family  for  a  short  period  in  1836,4  but 
where  he  was  and  what  he  was  doing  in  the  three  intervening 
years  we  can  only  surmise.  Perhaps  he  remained  with  Spooner 
later  than  1833.  But  this,  rather  than  the  date  he  gives5 
(1836-7),  must  have  been  the  period  in  which  he  wandered  as  a 
journeyman  compositor  to  the  larger  and  more  fascinating 
city  across  the  East  River.  In  that  case  it  is  not  unlikely 
that  he  himself  had  at  that  time  the  difficulties  in  finding  a 
boarding-house  which  are  reflected  in  the  experience  of  Franklin 
Evans.6  In  1835  lt:  was  not  easy>  it  seems,  to  discover  an  inex- 
pensive room  in  the  home  of  a  family  that  was  clean,  that 
had  young  children  about,  and  that  did  not  make  attendance 
upon  family  worship  obligatory.  Much  of  the  poet's  life  was 
to  be  spent  in  boarding-houses  and  hotels,7  a  fact  which  doubt- 
less had  its  influence  in  shaping  his  rather  detached  attitude 
toward  the  family  as  an  institution.  At  this  time  he  was  making 
the  acquaintance  of  the  theatre  and  the  opera,8  both  of  which 
were  to  have  much  to  do  in  his  education.  A  naively  conde- 
scending exposition  of  the  latter  forms  the  theme  of  one  of 
his  earliest  manuscripts.9  Of  the  theatre  and  the  opera  he 
made  a  serious  study  however  impressionistic  it  may  have 
been,  and  prepared  himself  by  reading  the  play  or  libretto  in 
advance.10 

1See  II,  p.  296,  note.        2See  II,  pp.  86,  246.        'See  II,  p.  86.         4 Ibidem. 

5 "Complete  Prose,"  p.  10.  From  the  middle  of  1836  till  the  middle  of  1841  Whitman 
lived  in  the  country.  (See  post,  II,  pp.  86-87.)  Even  before  1836  he  probably  spent 
his  summers  on  the  Island.     (See  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  10.) 

6  See  II,  pp.  126-127;  cf-  ak°  P-  2l8- 

7  See  I,  pp.  XLV,  61,  223,  224,  248,  249,  II,  pp.  23-24,  58,  59,  87-88. 

"See  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  514;  I,  pp.  255-259,  II,  pp.  148,  253-255.  In  the  course 
of  an  acrimonious  editorial  tilt  with  the  Brooklyn  Advertizer  (January,  1847)  Whit- 
man provoked  the  ire  of  certain  Brooklyn  "counterjumpers"  by  his  casual  allusion  to 
their  complete  want  of  critical  ability.  One  of  them  replied  in  an  open  letter  {Advertizer, 
January  18),  in  which  I  find  a  suggestion  that  Whitman  once  had  some  function  in  the 
theatre  other  than  that  of  newspaper  critic:  "  Now  whether  or  not  he  thinks  the  sta- 
tion of  printer's  'devil'  or  a  prompter's  'devil,'  as  he  has  been,  or  somebody  else's 
'devil,'  as  he  now  is — an  intellectually  super  [sic]  to  that  of  a  clerk  we  know  not,"  etc. 

•"A  Visit  to  the  Opera,"  II,  pp.  97-101. 

10 As  to  the  latter,  sec  p.  II,  100. 


xxx  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 


2.    LONG  ISLAND  (i  836-1841) 

We  can  only  guess  the  reason  which  influenced  Whitman,  in 
1836,  to  turn  his  back  on  the  city  which  had  fascinated  him  with 
its  varied  sights  and  which,  through  its  opportunities  for  self- 
education  in  newspaper  office,  theatre,  opera,  amateur  theatri- 
cals, and  multitudinous  human  contacts,  had  generated  in  him  a 
deep  but  ill-defined  ambition.  If,  as  I  believe,  "The  Shadow 
and  the  Light  of  a  Young  Man's  Soul"1  be  largely  autobio- 
graphical, perhaps  it  suggests  the  cause  of  Whitman's  five-year 
absence  from  New  York;  he  may  have  been,  like  Archie  Dean, 
simply  out  of  employment.2  For  it  was  unemployment,  he 
tells  us,  that  drove  most  of  the  country  school-teachers  to  their 
unremunerative  if  not  uncongenial  tasks.3  Or  he  may  have 
made  his  customary  summer  visit  to  his  relatives,  intending  to 
enjoy  such  natural  beauties  as  the  season  and  the  Island  af- 
forded, and  from  this  he  may  have  drifted  into  school-teaching 
in  the  same  casual  manner  in  which  he  seemed  to  drift  from 
newspaper  to  newspaper.  A  glance  at  his  photograph  of  this 
period4  is  sufficient  to  discover  in  him  that "  want  of  energy  and 
resolution"5  which  he  ascribed  to  Archie  Dean.  He  was  ambi- 
tious, as  I  have  said,  but  not  wholesomely  or  happily  so,  for 
he  was  proud,  disinclined  to  steady  work,  and  prone  to  feel  that 
the  labour  dictated  by  necessity  was  somehow  beneath  his  ca- 
pacity.6 

Each  has  his  care;  old  age  fears  death; 

The  young  man's  ills  are  pride,  desire, 
And  heart-sickness,  and  in  his  breast 

The  heat  of  passion's  fire.* 

It  was  natural  for  him  to  shift  from  district  to  district,  seeking 
novelty  where  advancement  was  impossible.  Within  five  years 
he  had  taught  seven  schools,  besides  editing  one  paper  for  eight 
or  ten  months  and  writing  for  others.8    These  frequent  changes 

1Sce  I,  pp.  229-234.        2See  I,  pp.  229-231.        3See  II,  p.  13. 

*  Frontispiece,  Vol.  II.        6See  I,  p.  230;  cf.  II,  p.  194.        ^Ibidem.        7See  I,  p.  10. 

8 Manuscript  Notebook — 4  gives  us  our  most  complete  record  of  these  changes:  Nor- 
wich, beginning  in  June,  1836;  school  west  of  Babylon,  winter,  1836-37;  Long  Swamp, 
spring,  1837;  Smithtown,  fall  and  winter,  1837;  the  Long  IsJander  edited  at  Huntington, 
June,  1838 — spring,  1839;  school  between  Jamaica  and  Flushing  (Little  Bay  Side?), 
winter,  1839-40;  Woodbury,  summer,  1840;  Whitestone,  winter,  1 840-41 ;  return  to  New 
York,  May,  1841.    See  II,  pp.  86-87. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xxxi 

may  argue  his  incapacity,1  on  which  point  there  is  a  difference  of 
testimony,2  or  they  may  merely  indicate  his  roving  disposition. 
On  the  whole  they  were  fortunate,  for  they  not  only  brought  him 
into  contact  with  the  various  phases  of  life  on  the  Island,3  but 
likewise  taught  him  the  solid  worth  and  common  sense  of  the 
self-reliant  country  folk  and  of  the  middle  classes,4  a  lesson 
which  he  had  scarcely  learned,  or  was  likely  to  learn,  in  the  east- 
ern cities.5  In  celebrating  the  "divine  average"  the  poet  began 
with  the  small  farmer  rather  than  with  the  industrial  proleta- 
riat. But  in  electing  to  spend  the  years  from  seventeen  to 
twenty-two  in  the  country,  this  sensitive,  inclusive,  mystical 
bard  derived  another  benefit.  It  meant  that  he  would  develop 
more  slowly  but  more  sanely.  A  Walt  Whitman  without 
poise,6  balance,  would  be  inconsequential  indeed.  The  chief 
significance  of  his  "boarding  round"  among  the  rather  illiterate 
Islanders,  of  his  attendance  upon  country  frolics7,  clam  bakes,8 
fishing  and  sailing  parties,9  of  his  solitary  walks  by  day  or 
night,  and  of  his  long  rides,10  is  therefore  to  be  sought  in  the 
whole  spirit  and  conception  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  no  less 
than  in  the  pages  of  reminiscent  prose  in  the  "Brooklyniana" 
sketches  or  in  the  "Letters  from  Paumanok."11 

What  merits  Whitman's  experimental  Long  Islander  may  have 
had  we  cannot  know,  for,  though  the  paper  still  flourishes,  there 
seems  to  exist  no  file  running  back  to  the  days  of  his  connec- 
tion with  it.  A  contemporary  sheet,  however,  chanced  to  pre- 
serve for  us  mere  samples  of  his  prose12  and  verse13  quoted  from 
the  Huntington  weekly.  They  are  nothing  of  which  a  nineteen- 
or  twenty-year-old  boy  without  appreciable  schooling  needed 
to  be  ashamed,  yet  they  constitute  no  unanswerable  argument 
why  their  author  should  not  have  been  replaced  by  another 
editor  when   he   grew   hopelessly   irregular  in   mounting   his 

*In  point  of  information  Whitman  was  probably  as  well  equipped  as  the  average 
country  teacher  of  his  day,  for  the  small  salary  paid — twenty  years  later,  it  was  only 
forty  or  fifty  dollars  a  quarter,  exclusive  of  board — could  not  command  the  masters 
of  a  pretentious  curriculum.     See  I,  p.  46,  note,  II,  pp.  13-14,  124. 

2  Cf.  Charles  A.  Roe  in  "  Brooklyniana,"  passim.  "  Walt  Whitman  Fellowship  Paper," 
No.  14,  and  J.  Johnston's  and  J.  W.  Wallace's  "Visits  to  Walt  Whitman  in  1890-1891," 
pp.  70-71. 

'See  I,  pp.  1 19-120,  124-125,  146-147,  247-254;  " Brooklyniana," passim. 

4See  I,  pp.  120-121,  232-233,  248-254,  II,  p.  14,  59. 

'See  I,  pp.  151-152,  185,  231.        6See  II,  p.  61.        7Cf.  I,  pp.  48-51. 

•C£  I,  pp.  164-166;  II,  pp.  319-320.        'See  I,  pp.  48-51,  248. 

10 See  I,  p.  232;  "Complete  Prose,"  pp.  8, 188. 

"See  I,  pp.  247-254.        ^See  I,  p.  32.        "See  I,  pp.  1-2. 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

good  horse  Nina1  in  order  to  deliver  its  ostensibly  weekly  issues. 
It  is  likely  that  the  Long  Islander  experience  was  helpful  in 
securing  for  Whitman  the  first,  impermanent  editorial  positions 
in  the  city  after  his  return.2 

By  the  fall  of  1839,  as  we  have  seen,  he  found  it  necessary 
to  return  to  school-teaching,  that  stand-by  of  budding  Ameri- 
can genius.  But  as  his  ambition  for  a  journalistic,  if  not  a 
literary,  career  was  growing  more  definite,  he  this  time  effected 
a  compromise  which  permitted  him  to  oscillate  between. the 
school-house  and  the  printing-office.  Whitman  lived  in  the 
family  of  James  J.  Brenton,  in  the  village  of  Jamaica,  who  edited 
and  published  the  weekly  Long  Island  Democrat,  for  which  the 
young  journalist  worked  as  typesetter  and  as  contributor  at 
such  times  as  he  was  not  occupied  at  his  school  a  short  distance 
down  the  Flushing  road.  The  combination  of  teaching  and 
journalism,  however,  seems  to  have  had  little  influence  upon  his 
writing  while  at  Jamaica  other  than  to  have  suggested  the 
caption  for  a  series  of  very  immature  essays.  Not  one  of  the 
" Sun-Down  Papers  from  the  Desk  of  a  Schoolmaster "3  refers 
to  school  matters,  but  all  are  frankly  didactic  in  manner. 
Though  only  seven  of  these  have  come  to  light,4  there  were 
apparently  eleven  in  all.5  Ten  poems  complete  the  publica- 
tions of  the  Jamaica  period.  The  connection  with  Mr.  Brenton 
was  on  the  whole  very  beneficial  to  Whitman.  The  older  jour- 
nalist had  faith  in  him  as  a  writer  and  encouraged  him,  both 
then  and  through  the  varying  fortunes  of  later  years.6  In  the 
Democrat  office  Whitman  doubtless  learned  something  about 
the  management  of  a  newspaper,  he  had  an  opportunity  to 
publish  his  juvenilia  pretty  regularly,7  and  he  had  access  to  a 
circulating  library  of  four  hundred  volumes.8  It  appears  that 
the  youth  also  knew  at  that  time  Henry  Onderdonck,  Jr.,9  the 

*See  II,  p.  87;  cf.  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  1 88. 

»See  II,  pp.  87-88.        3See  I,  pp.  32-51. 

•Including  one  copied  from  the  Hempstead  Inquirer  and  one  published  in  the  other 
Jamaica  weekly,  the  Long  Island  Farmer. 

5The  series  was  numbered. 

•Brenton  included  Whitman's  sentimental  sketch,  "Tomb-Blossoms,"  in  the  "Voices 
from  the  Press,"  which  he  published  in  1850,  and  through  the  Democrat  congratulated 
Whitman  whenever  the  latter  obtained  a  new  editorial  position.  See  also  the  letter 
quoted  in  the  note  on  p.  xxxiii. 

7See  footnote  1,  to  pp.  1,  2, 4,  5,  8,  9, 10, 12, 13, 15, 32, 35,  37, 39, 44,  46. 

8 See  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  January  17, 1838. 

9 See  II,  p.  309,  note  3. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xxxiii 

antiquarian,  who  could  tell  him  as  many  tales  about  Long 
Island's  past  as  William  Hartshorne  had  related  of  Revolu- 
tionary heroes. 

Concerning  Whitman's  domestic  life  at  this  period,  little  is 
known,1  but  clearly  he  was  already  going  his  own  strange,  self- 

*New  and  welcome  light  is  thrown  upon  this  period  of  Whitman's  life  by  a  letter  to 
me  from  Mrs.  Orvetta  Hall  Brenton,  daughter-in-law  of  Whitman's  Jamaica  employer. 
Some  allowance  will  have  to  be  made,  in  reading  it,  for  inaccuracy  in  detail,  since  it 
was  based  on  conversations  that  took  place  about  forty  years  ago,  but  it  preserves  at  least 
the  household  tradition  of  Whitman  and  doubtless  gives  a  fairly  true  picture.  I  omit 
only  the  general  introductory  paragraph. 

"Whitman  was  a  very  young  man  when  he  became  a  member  of  the  Brenton  household 
at  Jamaica  to  learn  the  printing  trade  from  my  father-in-law  at  the  office  of  the  Long 
Island  Democrat.  It  is  not  possible,  however,  for  me  to  verify  your  dates  of  1839  or 
1840.  This  definite  information  might  be  found  in  the  files  of  the  Long  Island  Democrat 
at  Jamaica.  My  husband's  parents  died  some  thirty-five  years  ago,  and  my  husband 
was  too  young  when  Whitman  lived  at  the  house  to  remember  much  about  him. 

"My  mother-in-law,  Mrs.  Brenton,  was  a  practical,  busy,  New  England  woman,  and 
very  obviously,  from  her  remarks  about  Whitman,  cared  very  little  for  him  and  held  him 
in  scant  respect.  He  was  at  that  time  a  dreamy,  impracticable  youth,  who  did  very 
little  work  and  who  was  always  'under  foot'  and  in  the  way.  Except  that  he  was  al- 
ways in  evidence  physically,  he  lived  his  life  very  much  to  himself.  One  thing  that 
impressed  Mrs.  Brenton  unfavorably  was  his  disregard  of  the  two  children  of  the  house- 
hold— two  small  boys — who  seemed  very  much  to  annoy  him  when  they  were  with  him 
in  the  house. 

"Mrs.  Brenton  always  emphasized,  when  speaking  of  Whitman,  that  he  was  inordi- 
nately indolent  and  lazy  and  had  a  very  pronounced  disinclination  to  work!  During 
some  of  the  time  he  was  in  the  household,  the  apple  trees  in  the  garden  were  in  bloom. 
When  Whitman  would  come  from  the  printing  office  and  finish  the  mid-day  dinner, 
he  would  go  out  into  the  garden,  lie  on  his  back  under  the  apple  tree,  and  forget  every- 
thing about  going  back  to  work  as  he  gazed  up  at  the  blossoms  and  the  sky.  Frequently, 
at  such  times,  Mr.  Brenner  would  wait  for  him  at  the  office  for  an  hour  or  two  and  then 
send  the  'printer's  devil'  up  to  the  house  to  see  what  had  become  of  him.  He  would 
invariably  be  found  still  lying  on  his  back  on  the  grass  looking  into  the  tree  entirely  ob- 
livious of  the  fact  that  he  was  expected  to  be  at  work.  When  spoken  to,  he  would  get 
up  reluctantly  and  go  slowly  back  to  the  shop.  At  the  end  of  such  a  day,  Mr.  Brenton 
would  come  home  and  say,  'Walt  has  been  of  very  little  help  to  me  to-day.  I  wonder 
what  I  can  do  to  make  him  realize  that  he  must  work  for  a  living?'  and  Mrs.  Brenton 
would  remark,  'I  don't  see  why  he  doesn't  catch  his  death  of  cold  lying  there  on  the 
ground  under  that  apple  tree!' 

"Whitman  was  such  an  annoyance  in  the  household  that  Mrs.  Brenton  was  overjoyed 
when  he  finally  decided  to  leave  the  office  of  the  Democrat.  Mr.  Brenton,  however, 
was  sorry  to  have  him  go,  for,  even  in  those  early  days,  he  showed  marked  ability  as  a 
writer  and  was  of  great  value  to  the  '  literary'  end  of  the  newspaper  work.  How  long 
he  was  in  Jamaica,  or  what  salary  he  received,  I  do  not  know.  Of  course,  in  those  days, 
a  considerable  part  of  the  salary  consisted  in  '  board  and  lodgings.' 

"I  do  not  think  he  attended  school  at  all  at  Jamaica,  and  I  do  not  know  where  he  first 
taught  school,  but  I  have  always  been  under  the  impression  that  it  was  at,  or  near, 
Huntington. 

"Another  detail  comes  to  mind  in  regard  to  his  behavior  in  the  house.  He  cared 
nothing  at  all  about  clothes  or  his  personal  appearance,  and  was  actually  untidy  about 
his  person.  He  would  annoy  Mrs.  Brenton  exceedingly  by  'sitting  around'  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  and  seemed  much  abused  when  she  insisted  on  his  putting  on  his  coat  to  come  to 
the  family  table.  While  she  would  be  setting  the  table  for  meals,  Whitman  was  always 
in  her  way  in  the  dining  room.  His  favourite  seat  was  in  the  dining  room  near  the  closet 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

guided  way,  with  none  to  understand  the  dreams  which  filled 
him  with  somewhat  more  than  the  ordinary  unrest  and  un- 
happiness  of  adolescence.  Ultimately  he  found  a  way  to  recon- 
cile the  world  of  his  fancy  with  the  equally  wondrous  world  of 
his  senses — a  "path  between  reality  and  the  soul";  but  his 
Jamaica  days  knew  the  distraction  of  dwelling  in  two  discon- 
nected realms  at  once.  His  fondness  for  loafing  and  inviting  his 
soul,1  already  becoming  pronounced,  accounts  for  what  success 
he  was  to  attain  both  as  seer  and  poet,  as  well  as  for  what  nu- 
merous failures  he  was  to  experience  as  a  professional  writer. 
But  he  was  as  yet  less  a  "kosmos"  than  a  chaos.  Though  his 
nature  was  never  to  conform  to  a  really  simple  character  type, 
certain  later  experiences,  mystical  or  practical,  were  to  charge 
him  with  a  dominating  purpose,  single  and  powerful  enough  to 
impel,  to  fortify,  and  to  encourage;2  but  at  twenty  he  was  un- 
able to  fuse  and  focalize  his  desires  on  any  of  the  ordinary  ob- 
jects of  human  endeavour,  whereas  the  extraordinary  end  of  his 
singular  existence  was  still  but  a  tantalizing  adumbration.3 

During  a  part  of  Whitman's  residence  at  Jamaica  he  had 
taken  an  active  interest  in  politics.  The  warfare  of  political 
parties  was  still  a  new  and  exciting  game  in  America,  and  Walt's 
patriotic  upbringing  and  his  fondness  for  addressing  himself 
directly  to  the  people4  insured  his  participation  in  it  sooner  or 
later.  Webster's  oratory  never  left  much  impression  on  his 
memory,5  yet  it  may  have  been  the  speech  which  the  eloquent 
senator  delivered  in  Jamaica  on  September  24, 1 840,  that  stimu- 


door  where  Mrs.  Brenton  had  to  pass  him  every  time  she  wished  to  get  the  dishes  and 
stumble  continually  over  his  feet.  He  would  never  think  to  remove  his  feet  from  the 
pathway  until  requested  definitely  to  do  so,  nor  would  he  move  at  all  out  of  the  way 
unless  he  was  told  to. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  tell  you  more.  My  impression  has  always  been  of  a  dreamy, 
quiet,  morose  young  man,  evidently  not  at  all  in  tune  with  his  surroundings  and  feeling, 
somehow,  that  fate  had  dealt  hard  blows  to  him.  I  never  heard  him  spoken  of  as  being 
in  any  way  bright  or  cheerful.  I  cannot  see  how  he  could  have  been  an  interesting  or  suc- 
cessful teacher  because  of  his  apparent  dislike  of  children  at  the  time  we  knew  him.  I 
never  heard  a  word  against  his  habits.  He  spent  most  of  the  time  off  duty  reading  by 
the  fire  in  the  winter  or  out  of  doors  dreaming  in  the  summer.  He  was  a  genius  who  lived 
apparently,  in  a  world  of  his  own.  He  certainly  was  detached  enough  from  the  Brenton 
household  at  Jamaica." 

^ee  I,  pp.  44-46;  II,  p.  314. 

*See  "A  Backward  Glance  O'er  Travel'd  Roads,"  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  1917,  III,  44. 
See  also  II,  p.  60. 

» Ibidem  (first  reference).        4 See  I,  p.  115. 

•See  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  III,  pp.  175-176. 1 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xxxv 

lated  him  to  active  political  enthusiasm,  for  he  was  himself 
electioneering  in  Queens  County  that  fall.1  By  July  29, 1841,  he 
had  so  far  ingratiated  himself  with  the  Tammany  organization 
as  to  be  selected  as  one  of  the  speakers  to  address  a  mass  meet- 
ing of  some  ten  thousand  persons  in  the  Park  (now  City  Hall 
Park)  in  New  York;2  and  by  1848  he  was  politically  important 
enough  to  be  appointed  one  of  Brooklyn's  fifteen  delegates  to 
the  Free-soil  Convention  which  met  that  year  in  Buffalo.3  But 
in  time  his  interest,  though  always  enlisted  in  political  causes, 
ceased  to  be  attracted  (if  indeed  there  had  ever  been  any  seri- 
ous attraction)  to  a  political  career.  Even  had  he  chosen  to 
deliver  his  "Leaves  of  Grass"  message  through  the  spoken 
instead  of  the  written  word,  it  is  improbable  that  Whitman 
could  ever  have  become  a  great  orator.  He  thought  too  slowly 
to  adapt  himself  to  the  exigencies  of  impromptu  eloquence.4 
But  if  he  did  not  have  the  talents  of  an  orator,  he  nevertheless 
had  the  instincts  of  one.  His  most  successful  prose  is  vibrant 
with  declamatory  periods,5  while  all  his  serious  writing  is  an 
effort  to  address  himself  more  or  less  personally  to  his  reader.6 
That  his  patriotism  was  idealistic  rather  than  time-serving 
js  sufficiently  indicated  by  the  single  fragmentary  speech  that 
has  come  down  to  us7  and  by  the  occasional  patriotic  odes  pub- 
lished in  his  youth.8  His  political  power  lay  in  his  sound  and 
disinterested  judgment9  and  in  his  fearless  public  spirit. 

The  sentimental  eagle-screaming  of  the  odes  just  mentioned 
was  nothing  novel  in  that  platitudinous  age,  but  Whitman  fell 
into  it  the  more  readily,  no  doubt,  because  his  personal  sentiment 
had  found  inadequate  means  of  expression.  That  strong  ama- 
tive nature  which  was  to  get  itself  recorded  fifteen  years  later 

»SeeII,  p.  87. 

2  See  I,  p.  51  note.  In  the  Eagle  of  January  4, 1847,  appears  the  following:  "Our  an- 
swer to  the  Tammany  Committee:  Yes,  Messrs.  of  the  Tammany  Society  of  New  York, 
the  Brooklyn  Eagle  will  be  happy  to  attend  the  8th  of  January  ball — not  forgetting 
to  thank  you  for  your  politeness  and  consideration." 

•See  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  August  7,  1848.  Whitman  was  one  of  the  speakers 
who  addressed  the  meeting  at  which  nominations  were  made,  introducing  a  resolution 
instructing  the  delegates  for  Martin  Van  Buren.  (See  the  New  York  Evening  Post, 
August  7,  1848.) 

*Cf.  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  I,  p.  249. 

bE.  g.,  I,  pp.  154-155,  160-162,  172-174,  255-259.        «See  I,  pp.  115;  II,  104-105. 

7See  I,  p.  51.        8See  I,  pp.  15-16,  22-23. 

•In  turning  the  pages  of  Whitman's  early  prose,  especially  the  editorials  written  sixty 
or  seventy-five  years  ago,  one  is  impressed  by  the  fact  that  he  nearly  always  was  on  the 
side  that  was  to  be  espoused  by  history.  (See  I,  pp.  30-31,  51,  158,  174, 175,  263;  cf.  II, 
PP-  57,  79,  83,  201,  252,  274,  276,  292.) 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

in  the  outspoken  pages  of  "Children  of  Adam"  and  "Calamus" 
must  also  have  been  growing  during  adolescence  with  the  devel- 
opment of  his  large  but  sensitive  body  and  mind.  He  seems  to 
have  found  no  one  at  this  period,  however,  who  could  under- 
stand or  respond  satisfyingly  to  his  mystical  hunger  for  affection. 
Archie  Dean  had  a  confidant  in  his  mother,  but  Whitman's 
mother,  though  doubtless  the  best  friend  of  his  youth,  found 
him  as  much  a  mystery  as  did  the  rest,  and  could  only  ponder 
in  her  heart  the  strange  nature  of  her  son.1  As  we  have  seen,  he 
was  too  much  of  a  dreamer  to  fit  comfortably  into  the  practical 
New  England  household  of  the  Brentons,  while  his  Quaker 
liberality  of  religious  views  sometimes  caused  him  to  be  looked 
at  askance  by  the  orthodox  Long  Islanders.2  His  life  must  have 
been  devoid  even  of  any  intimate  friendship  with  the  young  of 
either  sex,  for  his  verse  insistently  complains  that 

Luckless  love  pines  on  unknown.3 

Despairing  of  ever  finding  a  lover  on  earth,  he  at  times  longs,  as 
the  unrequited  affection  of  youth  has  taught  many  a  poet  to 
long,  for  death,  that  in  another  world  a  spirit  may  perchance  be 
found  to  mate  with  his.4  Thus  he  who  was  to  become  the  poet 
of  joy  and  of  absorbing  affection  began  his  singing  with  melan- 
choly chants  of  despair  and  the  grave.8  The  dream  of  death  as 
a  release  from  an  unhappy  life  persisted  with  him  for  years.6 
Often  it  is  tragic  death  that  he  describes,7  sometimes  the  death 
of  youth  and  innocence,  fit  for  flowers  and  sentimentalizing.8 
He  dallies  with  the  idea  in  the  introverted  luxury  of  his  loneli- 
ness, even  going  so  far  as  to  imagine  an  ideal  death  scene  for 
himself  amidst  the  nature  that  he  loved.9  It  is  well  not  to  take 
these  poems  too  seriously,  however,  for,  profoundly  self-reveal- 
ing though  they  be,  Whitman's  native  caution  probably  re- 
minded him  from  the  first  that  they  were  only  idle  dreams.10 

This  unreciprocated  affection  did  more  than  to  make  the  poet 
moody;  it  made  him  humanitarian.  Had  the  youth  met  a 
Mrs.  Stannard  or  a  Miss  Royster,  like  Poe,  his  later  celebration 
of  affection  might  have  been  more  often  personal  and  less  often 

^ee  "In  Re  Walt  Whitman"  (Traubel,  Horace,  ed.),  p.  34;  also  "With  Wait  Whit- 
man in  Camden,"  III,  p.  538. 
2See  "Walt  Whitman  Fellowship  Paper,"  No.  14. 

3  See  I,  p.  10.  4See  I,  pp.  9-10.  6See  infra,  p.  xxvii,  note  3.  •  Ibidem. 
7E.  g.y  I,  pp.  8-9,  12-13,  52-6o-  8£-  S»  J»  PP-  35-37-  "See  l>  PP-  5"7- 
"Cf.  II,  pp.  53-54. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL        xxxvii 

scientific  or  philanthropic.  But  as  it  was,  his  affection  was  to 
become  most  characteristic  when  most  indefinite,  atmospheric, 
impersonal.1  He  professed  to  take  no  stock  in  the  romantic 
sentiments  as  described  by  Byron  and  Bulwer,2  and  when  he 
urged  upon  mankind  the  duty  of  brotherly  love  he  meant  simply 
"that  healthy,  cheerful  feeling  of  kindness  and  good  will,  an 
affectionate  tenderness,  a  warm-heartedness,  the  germs  of  which 
are  plentifully  sown  by  God  in  each  human  heart."  3  Thus 
ungratified  desire  finds  a  temporary  relief  in  sublimated  ex- 
pression, and  the  youthful  writer  naively  follows  a  deep  instinct 
in  preaching  against  impulses  which  he  subconsciously  fears. 
Whitman  the  reformer  sometimes  had  himself  for  his  most 
interested  and  susceptible  audience.4  When  he  plunged  with 
extravagant  zeal  into  the  various  reform  movements  that  were 
sweeping  over  the  country  in  the  i84o's,  and  excoriated  the  users 
of  even  tea,  coffee,  and  tobacco5 — as  later  he  was  to  speak  out 
against  less  venial  sins — he  probably  did  not  realize  it,  so  blame- 
less were  his  own  habits  at  the  time,  but  it  was  the  puritan  in  him 
challenging  to  a  long  and  tragic  struggle  the  "caresser  of  life."6 

Growing  out  of  the  causes  of  unrest  which  I  have  mentioned, 
itself  perhaps  a  greater  cause  of  unrest  than  any  other,  was 
Whitman's  fermenting  literary  ambition.  It  became  the 
stronger  because  it  promised  to  satisfy  his  other  desires.  The 
political  idealist,  the  dogmatic  teacher,  the  priest  of  brotherly 
love,  the  social  reformer,  the  dreaming  poet,  and  the  original 
artist  might  conceivably  combine  in  the  writer,  though  the 
world  would  have  to  wait  fifteen  years  to  learn  just  what  unique 
sort  of  book  such  a  writer  would  bring  forth.  At  first  the  pros- 
pect of  a  career  entered  upon  from  motives  of  worldly  ambition 
seemed  vain  and  unworthy.7  But  when  the  literary  life  came  to 
appear,  not  as  an  enticement  to  personal  ambition,  but  as  an 

^ee  I,  pp.  46-48;  II,  pp.  69-71,  74,  81,  84,  146,  160, 173. 

*See  I,  p.  48.    But  Whitman  later  quoted  Byron  freely  (see  I,  p.  48,  note  1). 

z  Ibidem. 

♦Witness  the  story  of  his  writing  "  Franklin  Evans,"  a  temperance  novelette,  while  im- 
bibing his  inspiration,  much  against  his  conscience,  from  gin  punch.  (See  Bliss  Perry's 
"Walt  Whitman,"  p.  28.)  Contrast,  also,  his  editorial  on  honest  book  reviews  (I.  pp. 
125-126)  with  his  habit  of  anonymous  self-criticism,  or  his  advice  to  young  men  to 
avoid  the  bar-rooms  (I,  pp.  148-149)  with  his  New  Orleans  sketches. 

•See  p.  34. 

6"A  Legend  of  Life  and  Love"  (I,  pp.  78-83),  written  in  1842,  seems  to  indicate  that 
Whitman  soon  came  to  realize  that  the  issue  was  joined  between  a  cautious  asceticism 
and  a  generous  trust  in  natural  instincts. 

7  See  I,  pp.  4-5,  19-20. 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

opportunity  to  extend  to  mankind  (instead  of  a  mere  roomful 
of  country  youths)  the  benefit  of  his  inspired  tutelage,  Whitman 
felt  that  the  wilderness  temptation  would  bear  reconsideration. 
He  began  to  dream  of  a  book  which  was  one  day  to  make  him 
famous.1  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  originally  the  intent  of 
the  book  is  philosophical  (perhaps  religious)  rather  than  artistic, 
that  no  novelty  of  form  is  mentioned,  and  that  in  it  the  treat- 
ment of  romance  and  sex,  which  later  came  to  have  such  import- 
ance in  the  plan  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  was  to  be  definitely 
and  totally  excluded  because  of  complete  ignorance  on  the  part 
of  the  prospective  author.2  The  plan  of  the  book  was  as  yet 
very  hazy  in  Whitman's  mind,3  but  he  intends  its  burden  to  be  a 
caution  against  what  he  afterward  called  "the  mania  of  owning 
things/'  In  this  he  was  probably  too  sincere  to  realize  that  by 
adding  the  vow  of  poverty  to  those  of  chastity  and  charity  he 
was  justifying  to  himself,  not  only  his  absorption  in  a  mystical 
contemplation  of  the  universe,  but  also  his  constitutional  anti- 
pathy to  the  sort  of  routine  application  which  accumulates  the 
goods  of  this  world.  Anyway,  this  child  certainly  was  father 
of  the  Brooklyn  carpenter  who  is  said  to  have  turned  his  back 
on  fairly  profitable  house-building  in  order  to  publish,  again 
and  again,  a  volume  of  poems  that  would  not  sell.  This  early 
announcement  that,  if  the  world  would  but  have  patience, 
Nazareth  should  yet  produce  her  prophet  affords,  in  its  amusing 
mixture  of  modesty  and  naive  egotism,  a  suggestive  glimpse  of 
the  process  whereby  the  affection  of  a  gifted  man,  turned  inward 
upon  himself  for  want  of  other  object,  produces  the  artist  and 
benefactor  of  mankind.  It  also  warrants  us  in  tracing  the  con- 
scious genesis  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  farther  back  in  the  life 
of  its  author  than  has  commonly  been  done.  It  would  seem,  in- 
deed, that  Whitman's  conception  of  truth  was  already  trans- 
cendental and  that  he  was  acquainted  with  some  simpler  type 
of  mystical  ecstasy.5 

But  to  suppose  that  the  young  man  was  always  inditing  in 
his  heart  such  weighty  matters  would  be  to  neglect  that  other 
side  of  his  nature  which  took  uncommon  delight  in  physical  sen- 
sations and  personal  experiences  as  such.  He  attended  coun- 
try celebrations,6  entered  with  zest  into  the  spirit  of  picnic 

1See  I,  pp.  37-39.        ■ Ibidem. 

'See  "A  Backward  Glance  O'er  Travel'd  Roads,"  in  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  1917,111,  p.  44. 

4 See  I,  pp.  37-39.     Cf.  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  1 855,  p.  34. 

•See  I,  pp.  38,  39-44.        «See  I,  pp.  73-74. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL         xxxix 

excursions  to  the  Great  South  Bay,1  occasionally  visited  New 
York,2  and  mingled  with  every  class  of  people.  Once  he  wrote 
a  bit  of  absurd  doggerel,  perhaps  descriptive  of  himself.3  Again, 
he  preceded  Stevenson  by  a  generation  in  writing  a  frank  and 
unabashed  apology  for  idlers — philosophic  idlers — like  himself.4 
Clearly  his  feet  were  already  set  on  the  Open  Road,  and  hence- 
forth neither  man  nor  woman  would  be  able  long  to  detain  him 
in  his  journey  through  These  States  as  a  vagabond  prophet  of 
art,  religion,  and  democracy.  If  in  these  Jamaica  sketches  he 
appears  to  lack  reverence  for  man  and  for  man-made  conven- 
tions, it  cannot  be  said  that  he  was  deficient  in  that  sense  of  re- 
ligious awe  which  Carlyle  always  discovered  in  his  heroes, 
whether  men  of  letters  or  founders  of  religions.5 

3.    NEW  YORK  AND  BROOKLYN  (1841-1848) 

If  it  was  fortunate  that  the  nascent  poet  could  spend  the  years 
between  seventeen  and  twenty- two  amidst  the  simple,  whole- 
some conditions  of  country  life,  where,  under  the  influence  of 
work  and  play,  of  human  contact  and  mystical  meditation,  he 
might  with  Dutch  thoroughness  lay  the  foundation  of  his  future 
health  and  character,  perhaps  it  was  equally  to  be  desired  that 
the  coming  bard  of  democracy  should  spend  the  following  years 
of  his  protracted  youth  in  the  heart  of  the  metropolis.  Con- 
cerning the  next  seven  years  of  his  life  we  know  little  except  what 
Whitman  has  seen  fit  to  tell  us  in  his  own  writings  or  what  has 
cautiously  been  entrusted  to  his  biographers.  Some  of  these 
writings  have  only  recently  come  to  light,  and  the  mass  of  them 
— particularly  the  newspaper  editorials — have  never  been  given 
a  really  thorough  examination  by  any  competent  person.  Such 
neglect  can  no  longer  be  excused  by  blanket  allusions  to  the 
banality  of  his  early  prose;  for  whether  a  poet  begin  his  success- 
ful singing  at  twenty  or  at  thirty-five,  the  third  decade  of  his 
life  is  always  biographically  important. 

The  elements  of  Whitman's  nature  which  were  beginning  to 
emerge  into  consciousness  during  the  last  period  now  assume 
more  definiteness  of  expression.  There  he  had  dreamed  of  re- 
forming the  world;  now  he  seriously  tries  his  hand  at  it.  On  the 
Island  he  had  prayed  for  love,  but  prayed  in  vain;  in  the  city  he 
appears  to  have  learned  the  language  of  love  and  friendship, 

^ee  I,  pp.  48-51.        2See  II,  p.  87.        3See  I,  pp.  2-4. 
4  See  I,  pp.  44-46.        6See  I,  pp.  40-44- 


xl  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

though  it  is  not  known  that  at  this  time  he  found  any  lasting 
lover  or  friend.  His  transcendental  faith  in  the  goodness  and 
trustworthiness  of  nature  now  begins  to  lead  him  into  spheres 
of  indulgence  that  were  in  marked  contrast  to  the  asceticism  of 
the  previous  period — spheres  from  which  he  later  withdrew 
with  aversion  if  not  regret.1  But  all  these  experiences  were  the 
education  of  the  poet,  and  they  help  to  explain  the  weltschmerz 
and  the  discernment  in  his  verse.  In  the  preceding  period  he 
had  slowly  realized  that  his  calling  was  literature;  now  he  begins 
that  intimate  connection  with  newspapers,  magazines,  and  books 
which  one  must  look  upon  as  constituting  his  chief  apprenticeship 
as  a  writer.  Of  course  Whitman's  tenure  of  office  in  the  news- 
paper world  was  likely  to  be  no  more  permanent  than  in  the  less 
exacting  realm  of  country  schools.  According  to  his  own  record 
he  was  connected — as  compositor,  contributor,  or  editor — with 
nine  newspapers  or  literary  journals  in  eight  years,2  besides 
writing  a  novelette  and  contributing  to  four  magazines.  If  the 
ordinary  criteria  of  success  be  applied,  this  was,  without  doubt, 
a  bad  record;  but  if  Whitman's  peculiar  mission  was,  first,  to 
be  in  himself  a  synthesis  of  life  in  America  during  the  turbu- 
lent nineteenth  century  and,  second,  to  express  that  life  in  a 
book  more  or  less  suggestive  of  its  youth,  its  energy,  its  flowing 
picturesqueness,  and  its  crude  democracy,  then  the  constant 
shifts  whereby  he  was  enabled  to  study  life  and  nature  from  a 
multiplex  viewpoint  were,  in  the  main,  not  only  beneficial  but 
absolutely  necessary.  During  this  period  the  youthful  bigotry 
evidenced  in  his  fondness  for  lecturing  the  world  is  gradually 
qualified  by  an  increasing  receptiveness  to  new  and  diverse  im- 
pressions, until  the  time  for  his  first  true  oracular  expression 
comes  in  1 847-1 848.  No  conventional  duty  is  allowed  to  inter- 
rupt his  lifelong  habit  of  strolling  amidst  his  kind — observing, 
sympathizing,  "absorbing" — and  thus  forming,  against  the  day 
of  his  authentic  poetic  utterance,  the  subconscious  mystical 
synthesis  to  which  I  have  referred.  Thus  his  famous  "cata- 
logues," which  appeared  in  his  prose  before  they  were  incor- 
porated in  his  verse,3  assume  a  significance  that  is  biographical 
as  well  as  artistic.  He  missed  nothing  that  was  to  be  seen.  He 
attended  the  theatre  and  the  opera;4  he  studied  the  fairs  and 

1See  Bliss  Perry,  he.  cit.,  pp.  151-152. 

«See  infra,  p.  xxvii,  note  9.        3  See  post,  pp.  bcii-bciii. 

*See  I,  pp.  143-144,  I5*-I54i  iS6"^8*  255"259;  Hi  PP-  97~I°I>  *48;  also  "The 
Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  349-351, 359. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xli 

exhibitions;1  he  patronized  the  public  baths;2  he  was  familiar 
with  all  the  police  courts  and  the  slums;3  he  wrote  crude  special 
articles  on  Sing  Sing,4  on  the  hospitals,5  the  asylums,6  the 
schools;7  he  attended  picnics,8  went  on  steamboat  and  railway 
excursions,9  and  was  present  to  take  part  in  political  meet- 
ings and  celebrations.10  He  attended  lectures11  and  concerts,12 
gazed  in  awe  at  the  great  city  fires,13  and  loitered  amidst  the 
shipping14  and  on  the  ferries.15  Wherever  human  life  was 
"magnificently  moving  in  vast  masses,"  there  was  he  to  feel 
and  absorb  it.  It  was  no  accident,  therefore,  that  he  should 
have  found  much  to  attract  and  inspire  him  in  the  "average 
man"  of  the  city,  even  as  he  had  discovered  the  more  obvious 
virtues  of  the  countryman. 

His  own  life  is  still,  as  always,  fundamentally  complex.  He 
can  resist  anything  better  than  his  own  "diversity,"  which  has 
as  yet  prevented  any  blending  of  his  sentimental  dreams  of  the 
past  with  his  heroic  prophecies  of  the  future.  He  still  broods 
on  death  and  the  grave;16  he  continues  his  puerile  moralizing 
about  children;17  his  imagination  still  consorts  with  angelic 
beings,  as  fanciful  as  those  which  called  Poe  father;18  he  vene- 

*See  I,  pp.  142-143;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  July  2,  November  21, 1846;  also  "The 
Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  113-117,  363-365. 

*See  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  May  3,  1847;  also  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II, 
pp.  201-207,  which  is  apparently  in  error  in  stating  that  Whitman  remained  in  the  bath 
twenty  minutes,  for  in  the  Eagle  of  July  30,  1 846,  he  advises  bathers  to  remain  in  the 
water  at  Gray's  Baths  not  more  than  five  or  six  minutes. 

*Cf.  II,  pp.  10-12. 

*See  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  30, 1846. 

6Cf.  II,  pp.  27-28,  291. 

8  See  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June,  3,  9,  24, 1846;  July  17,  1846. 

7 See  I,  pp.  144-146;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  4,  September  5, 1846;  also  "The  Gath- 
ering of  the  Forces,"  I,  pp.  121-133, 136-145. 

8  See  I,  pp.  164-166;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  25,  1846. 

•See  I,  pp.  118-121;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  25,  August  1, 1846. 

"See  I,  pp.  22-23;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  July  I,  2,  6,  1846,  June  2,  1847,  August  7, 
1848. 

"See  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  March  5,  6,  7, 1846;  cf.  p.  000. 

"See  I,  pp.  104-106  and  notes;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  November  20, 1846;  also  "The 
Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  351-359. 

"Seel,  pp.  154-156. 

"See  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  March  9,  June  27, 1846. 

15See  I,  pp.  142,  168-171. 

"See  I,  pp.  60-67, 9l~92>  108-1 10, 146-147;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle, September  10, 1846. 

"See  I,  pp.  21,  91-92, 138-139;  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  I,  pp.  145-147. 

"See  I,  pp.  83-86,  86-89. 


xlii  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

rates  more  than  ever  the  fathers  of  freedom;1  and  he  resents 
the  architectural  reforms  which  would  molest  the  ancient 
churches  and  other  building  sacred  to  his  memories.2  But,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  cries  out  for  progress  along  various  lines  and 
himself  seeks  to  lead  the  way.  Thus  he  was  learning  to  be,  not 
only  a  voice  of  the  present  complexity,  but  a  link  between  the 
past  achievement  and  the  future  hope.  At  the  same  time  that 
he  was  growing  to  be  a  reformer  without  a  party,  an  artist  with- 
out a  school,  and  a  prophet  without  a  cult,  he  was  also  translat- 
ing into  the  "American"  language  wisdom  as  old  as  the  world. 
Not  one  of  Whitman's  contributions  to  the  Aurora,  the  Sun, 
the  Tattler,  the  Statesman,  or  the  Democrat  (all  of  New  York)  has 
as  yet  been  unearthed;  but  fortunately  we  have  complete  files  of 
the  Brooklyn  Eagle  during  the  two  years  of  his  editorship. 
These  old  numbers  of  the  Eagle  make  it  clear  that  here  as  else- 
where Whitman  was  himself  first  and  newspaper  functionary 
afterward.  And  yet — perhaps  for  that  very  reason — it  can  be 
said  that,  like  Greeley  and  Bennett,  he  went  beyond  the  cur- 
rent conception  of  editorial  opportunity  and  responsibility.3 
Had  his  training  fitted  him  for  such  a  hearing  as  Greeley 
or  Bryant  obtained  through  the  Tribune  and  the  Evening 
Post,  his  influence  upon  journalism  might  have  been  as  wide 
as  his  policy  was  far-sighted  and  individual.  For  to  him  a 
newspaper  was  a  living  thing,  its  readers  individual  human 
beings.4  Sometimes  his  journal  is  the  scourge  of  reform,  purg- 
ing the  temple  of  democracy;5  sometimes  it  is  an  Athenian 
forum,  resounding  with  discussions  of  the  basic  principles  of 
good  government;6  at  other  times  it  is  a  humanitarian  pulpit, 
defending  the  ignorant,  the  weak,  the  helpless;7  now  it  is  a 
college  class-room,  in  which  books  are  sifted  and  appraised, 
and  their  treasures  disclosed;8  now  it  is  itself  a  miniature  li- 
brary, stocked  with  poems,  tales,  novelettes,  extracts,  or  "Sab- 
bath reading";9  again  it  is  a  political  stump,  from  which  the 
editor  urges  the  claims  of  candidate  or  party  with  a  vehemence 

»See  I,  pp.  22-23, 72-78, 95-96, 117-118.        2See  I,  pp.  92-97. 
3 See  I,  pp.  1 1 5-1 1 7, 137;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  September  29, 1846. 
<SeeI,  p.  115. 

6See  I,  pp.  106-108,  108-110,  121-123, 125-126,  137,  152-154, 156, 162-163, 168-170. 
•See  I,  pp.  159-160,  166-168;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  December  14,  1846;  also"The 
Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  I,  pp.  57-74. 

7  See  I,  pp.  106-108,  108-110, 138-139, 144-146;  cf.  II,  pp.  9-12. 

"See  I,  pp.  121-123,  125-126,  126-137,  139-141,  163-164;  cf.  II,  pp.  19-21. 

•See  I,  pp.  129-130,  note. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xliii 

that  passed  with  the  youth  of  the  nation;1  finally,  it  at  times 
becomes  a  man  talking  to  other  men,  of  the  life  he  sees  about 
him  or  of  the  life  he  foresees  in  the  more  or  less  distant  future.2 
No  paper  in  the  city,  I  think,  attempted  to  cultivate  so  large  a 
field  of  usefulness.  If  Whitman  was  often  out  of  the  editorial 
office,  it  was  to  become  his  own  reporter,  for  he  had  none. 
If  he  neglected  or  ignored  party  politics  at  times,  he  was  acting 
as  his  own  musical  or  dramatic  critic.  If  he  occasionally  broke 
away  from  the  confinement  of  the  city  and  had  a  loiter  over 
the  Island,  he  was  at  once  renewing  his  youth  and  awaken- 
ing his  self-interested  city  readers  with  country  correspond- 
ence.3 His  style  often  left  much  to  be  desired,  but  certainly 
it  was  fresher  and  dealt  with  more  important  journalistic  matter 
than  was  to  be  found  in  the  pages  of  any  Brooklyn  contempo- 
rary. If  the  circulation  of  the  Eagle  really  decreased  during  his 
editorship,  as  it  is  said  to  have  done,4  that  fact  no  more  dis- 
proves the  value  of  Whitman's  innovations  than  the  popular 
neglect  of  the  1855  edition  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  accurately 
rates  the  worth  of  that  highly  original  book.  However,  the 
employer  watched  the  "ninepences"  5  and  laid  store  by  them 
even  if  the  editor  did  not,  and  so  the  time  came  when  Whitman's 
intractability,  when  he  swung  the  paper  vigorously  in  line  with 
the  radical  Barnburner  or  Free-soil  wing  of  the  party,  gave  Mr. 
Van  Anden  and  the  conservative  bosses  of  the  party  a  welcome 
opportunity  to  replace  him  with  S.  G.  Arnold,6  a  more  correct, 
conventional,7  and  docile  editor.8  The  doggedness  with  which 
Whitman  later  issued  his  "Leaves,"  refusing  to  be  persuaded, 
either  by  Emerson  or  by  the  Attorney  General  of  Massachusetts, 

*See  I,  pp.  160-162,171-174;  also  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  2-45. 

*See  I,  pp.  114-115,141-144, 151-152,  etc.;  also  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  I,  pp. 

25-26,  27-28. 

»SeeI,  pp.  174-181. 

«By  W.  A.  Chandos-Fulton  in  "The  Local  Press"  (Brooklyn  Standard,  October  22, 
1864). 

6  See  I,  p.  115. 

•A  friend  of  Van  Anden. 

7  Readers  who  approach  Whitman's  Eagle  writings  with  the  typical  current  concep- 
tion of  the  man  and  the  poet  in  mind  are  likely  to  find  them  more  conventional  than  did 
the  readers  of  1846.  Yet  there  were  plenty  of  sentiments  expressed  by  the  editor  of  the 
Eagle,  even  on  such  subjects  as  sex,  education,  and  literature,  which  might  as  well  have 
appeared  in  the  pages  of  his  contemporaries.  This  very  conventionality,  however,  shows 
his  later  radicalism  to  have  been  deliberate,  vision-inspired,  rather  than  temperamental. 

8  For  a  somewhat  fuller,  but  hardly  a  new,  account  of  this  episode  see  "  The  Gathering  of 
the  Forces,"  I,xxiv-xxxvi;  II, pp.  179-186, 191-200,  203-208, 214-228.  Cf.  infra,  p.  xxviii. 


xliv  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

to  modify  it  in  deference  to  what  he  considered  the  low  tone  of 
public  morals  and  taste,  will  be  the  occasion  of  no  surprise  to 
those  who  have  followed  his  editorial  history.  Here  he  was 
right  on  nearly  every  question  of  public  interest,  he  conscien- 
tiously strove  to  elevate  the  standards  and  to  enlarge  the  whole- 
some influence  of  the  press,  he  was  public-spirited  and  fearless, 
and  he  knew  not  how  to  turn  back  from  a  course  deliberately 
chosen.  But  when,  in  his  casual,  self-confident  way,  he  se- 
cured his  next  employment,  in  New  Orleans,  it  was  to  be  in  an 
environment  as  strange  to  the  puritan  in  him  as  it  was  congenial 
to  the  indolent  if  wide-awake  caresser  of  life. 


4.    NEW  ORLEANS  (March— May,  1848) 

Few  indeed  were  the  facts  known  concerning  Whitman's 
journey  to  New  Orleans  until  very  recent  years.  Whitman 
wrote  for  the  New  Orleans  Crescent,  but  failed  otherwise  to 
preserve  an  interesting  account  of  this  trip,  made  by  rail, 
mountain  stagecoach,  and  river  steamboat1;  but  like  other 
accounts  born  of  novelty  and  child-wonder,  it  shrinks  in  size  as 
its  inspiration  wanes,  until,  when  the  Father  of  Waters  is 
reached,  the  prose  ceases  entirely,  giving  way  to  only  an  impres- 
sionistic little  poem  in  conventional  measures.2  The  narrative 
is  entertaining,  however,  because  of  the  light  it  throws  upon 
the  means  of  transportation  common  at  the  time,  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  towns  and  rivers,  on  the  incredible  cheapness 
of  living  costs,  the  character  of  the  inland  inhabitants,  and  the 
promise  the  young  poet  saw  in  the  West.3 

Walt  had  left  Brooklyn,  with  his  fifteen-year-old  brother 
JefF,  on  February  11;  they  arrived  in  New  Orleans  about 
ten  o'clock  on  the  night  of  February  25.  The  two  weeks  of 
varied  travel  were  doubtless  crammed  with  experiences  of  inter- 
est and  enlargement  for  the  virile  and  receptive  child  of  New 
York.  As  for  New  Orleans,  we  know  that  it  remained  in  Whit- 
man's memory  as  one  of  his  three  "cities  of  romance."4 

1See  I,  pp.  1 81-190. 

8 "The  Mississippi  at  Midnight,"  the  original  version  of  which  is  to  be  found  in  the 
Yale  Review,  October,  191 5,  p.  173.  The  six  original  stanzas  are  given  also  by  Doctor 
R.  M.  Bucke  in  his  "Notes  and  Fragments,"  pp.  41-42,  where  he  adds  two  more.  Still 
others  are  to  be  seen  in  "  Complete  Prose,"  pp.  373-374. 

'See  I,  p.  185;  cf.  pp.  151-152. 

4 See  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  II,  p.  29. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xlv 

The  day  after  their  arrival  the  Whitmans  found  a  boarding 
house  at  the  corner  of  Poydras  and  St.  Charles  streets,  but  to 
youths  accustomed  to  the  Dutch  spotlessness  of  Madam  Whit- 
man's housekeeping,  the  place  seemed  dirty  beyond  endurance.1 
More  comfortable  quarters  were  soon  found  in  the  "Fremont 
house,  next  door  to  the  theatre  and  directly  opposite  the  office."2 
It  appears  that  a  month  later  they  were  not  living  in  New  Or- 
leans proper,  but  in  Lafayette,  then  a  suburb.3  Walt  found 
the  Fremont  House  convenient  because  there  one  might  go  to 
his  meals  as  irregularly  as  one  liked.4  Occasionally,  at  least, 
his  breakfasts  were  taken  in  the  French  market.5  If  any  of  his 
adolescent  asceticism  with  reference  to  the  use  of  coffee  remained 
in  1848,  it  was  to  vanish  before  the  delicious  beverage  he  found 
in  this  market.6  Many  years  afterward  he  recalled  the  superior 
wines  of  which  the  city  had  boasted,7  but  he  either  did  not 
drink  much  in  the  spacious  bar-rooms  he  loved  to  frequent8  or 
else  he  concealed  the  -fact  from  his  brother.9  His  dress  was 
simple,  but  immaculate.10  He  was  trying  to  save  money,  for  he 
hoped  to  be  able  to  send  home  enough  to  pay  the  interest  on 
a  loan;11  and  by  the  last  of  April  he  had,  according  to  Jeff, 
"quite  a  sum."  12  His  salary  is  unknown,  but  it  must  have  been 
a  very  fair  one  for  that  time,  for  the  amount  saved  would  be  in 
addition  to  all  or  a  part  of  the  two  hundred  dollars  advanced  to 
him  in  New  York  to  cover  travelling  expenses  and  to  bind  the 
bargain.13  Possibly,  however,  misunderstanding  this  as  "expense 
money"  instead  of  a  loan  (the  agreement  had  been  made  in 
fifteen  minutes),14  he  thought  he  had  more  to  his  credit  than  the 

I  Manuscript  letter  from  Jefferson  Whitman  to  his  mother,  in  the  Bucke  collection. 
*  Ibidem.    Cf.  II,  p.  77.        3See  I,  p.  223.        4See  II,  p.  77. 

"See  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  440. 

^Ibidem;  see  also  I,  p.  204. 

'See  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  440.  Whitman  had  learned  to  like  champagne  before 
going  to  New  Orleans  (I,  p.  165),  though  his  brother  George  said  "I  do  not  suppose, 
Walt  drank  at  all  till  he  was  thirty."     ("  In  Re  Walt  Whitman,"  p.  36.) 

8See  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  440;  I,  pp.  199,  title. 

8 In  a  letter  to  his  mother  written  on  March  27,  Jeff  assures  her  that  she  need  have 
no  fear  that  they  will  fall  victims  to  the  then  prevalent  yellow  fever,  inasmuch  as  he 
attributes  it  largely  to  intemperance,  and  adds:  "You  know  that  Walter  is  averse  to 
such  habits." 

10 See  I,  pp.204,  208-209,  "6;  see  also  the  1 849-1 850  photograph  in  the  Camden 
Edition  of  his  works. 

II  Walt  Whitman  manuscript,  dated  March  28,  in  the  Bucke  collection. 

n  Jefferson  Whitman  manuscript,  dated  April  23,  in  the  Bucke  collection. 
18See  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  188.        H  Ibidem. 


xlvi  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

accounting  office  would  allow.  At  any  rate,  though  pleasantly- 
situated,  he  intended  to  return  north  as  soon  as  he  had  saved  a 
thousand  dollars.1  New  Orleans  interested  him,  but  appar- 
ently it  was  no  rival  to  his  affection  for  his  home.2 

Whitman's  work  was  in  the  editorial  department  of  the  Cres- 
cent, but,  in  contrast  to  much  of  his  earlier  experience,  he  was 
not  sole  editor  nor  even  editor-in-chief.  Besides  him  there 
were  an  editorial  writer,  a  city  editor,  and  a  translator,  his  own 
principal  duty  being  to  "make  up  the  news"  with  pen  and  scis- 
sors, though  he  also  wrote  some  editorials  and  sketches.3  He 
went  to  work  about  nine  in  the  morning  and  got  away  from  the 
office  before  eleven  at  night.4  But  he  must  have  had  his  usual 
stroll  about  town  within  these  hours — between  the  time  for 
"copy"  and  that  for  "proofs"  perhaps — for  he  sometimes  cov- 
ered the  recorders'  courts  (police  courts)  and  collected  material 
for  his  "Sketches  of  the  Sidewalks  and  Levees."5  Notwith- 
standing the  pleasantness  of  his  situation,  it  is  difficult  to  see  how 
a  man  of  Whitman's  habits,  temperament,  and  training  could 
have  long  continued  to  work  harmoniously,  even  with  affable 
co-labourers,  in  an  office  where  his  independence  was  left  so  un- 
protected by  the  indefinite  division  of  labour.  However,  the 
break,  when  it  came,  was  with  his  employers,  and  was  occa- 
sioned by  a  difference  over  money  matters  and  a  (to  Whitman) 
inexplicable  estrangement  between  himself  and  the  owners  of 
the  paper,  Messrs.  Hayes  and  McClure.6  This  difficulty,  taken 
with  the  fact  of  Jeff's  homesickness  and  indisposition  and  of 
Walt's  own  unrooted  nature,  sufficiently  accounts  for  their  de- 
parture homeward,  only  three  months  after  their  arrival  in  New 
Orleans.7 

Whitman's  writings  of  this  period  will  be  criticized  in  the 
following  essay,  but  some  of  them,  having  biographical  impli- 
cations, must  also  be  mentioned  here.  With  the  exception  of 
the  single  poem  before  mentioned,8  Whitman  wrote  no  verse  on 
this  Southern  "jaunt,"  unless  some  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass" 

1See  note  12,  p.  xlv,  infra. 

2On  March  28  he  wrote  to  his  mother:  "My  prospects  in  the  money  line  are  bright. 
O  how  I  long  for  the  day  when  we  can  have  our  own  quiet  little  farm,  and  be  together 
again — and  have  Mary  and  her  children  come  to  pay  us  long  visits."  (Manuscript 
letter  in  the  Bucke  collection.) 

8 See  II,  p.  78. 

4 See  I,  p.  224;  II,  p.  77,  note;  also  manuscript  letter  of  Jefferson  Whitman,  dated 
March  14,  in  the  Bucke  collection. 

•See  I,  pp.  199-218.        8See  II,  pp.  77-78;  cf.  pp.  165,  187.        7See  II,  pp.  77-78. 

8  See  infra y  p.  xliv,  note  2. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xlvii 

passages  descriptive  of  the  South  were  written  at  that  time  and 
preserved  many  years  only  in  manuscript.1  And  even  his  prose, 
with  a  few  exceptions,  was  uncommonly  slipshod  and  inartistic. 
Perhaps  he  had  never  before  been  so  typically  a  journalist  as  in 
these  hasty  and  crude  expressions  of  what  he  was  seeing  and 
feeling  in  New  Orleans,  impressions  not  crystallized  but  held  a 
moment  in  solution  ere  they  should  be  gone  forever.  It  is 
therefore  instructive  to  compare  the  anonymous  record  of  his 
New  Orleans  life  written  at  the  time  for  a  newspaper  which 
could  have  been  read  by  very  few  who  knew  him  at  the  North 
— written  with  little  expectation  that  it  could  ever  be  used  to 
throw  light  on  the  evolution  of  a  great  poet — with  his  later 
culled  reminiscences  of  that  life  published  by  that  poet  grown 
famous.2  In  these  earlier  sketches  we  recognize  the  Whitman 
familiar  to  the  pilot-houses  of  the  New  York  ferries  and  to  the 
drivers*  boxes  of  the  Broadway  stages.  He  roams  among  the 
cemeteries,3  visits  the  old  St.  Louis  Cathedral,4  converses  with 
the  returning  heroes  of  the  Mexican  War,5  lounges  in  the 
spacious  bar-rooms  of  the  hotels,  studying  the  picturesque 
cosmopolitanism  of  the  types  to  be  found  there,6  exposes  the 
frauds  of  fake  auctioneers,7  strolls  about  the  levee  and  con- 
verses with  the  river-men,8  or  satirizes  human  folly  and  drops, 
like  Irving,  a  sympathetic  tear  upon  misfortune.9  But  do  these 
contributions  to  the  Crescent  reveal  a  romance  of  his  own? 

Biographers  who  believe  that  there  was  a  very  significant 
Whitman  romance  in  New  Orleans  in  1848  have  based  their 
conjecture  largely  on  the  following  evidence:10 

(1)  In  reply  to  persistent  and  disconcerting  inquiries  from  his  Eng- 
lish admirer,  John  Addington  Symonds,  concerning  the  inner  meaning 
of  some  of  Whitman's  poems  of  affection,  the  poet  wrote,  on  August  19, 
1890,  the  following  rather  cryptic  sentences:  "My  life,  young  man- 
hood, mid-age,  times  South,  etc.,  have  been  jolly  bodily,  and  doubt- 
less open  to  criticism.     Tho'  unmarried  I  have  had  six  children — two 

*See  Bucke's  "Walt  Whitman,"  1883,  p.  136. 

•"Complete  Prose,"  pp.  439-441. 

•See  manuscript  letter  of  Jefferson  Whitman,  dated  March  14,  in  the  Bucke  collection. 

•See  I,  pp.  221-222.        6See  I,  p.  225,  and  note.        «See  I,  pp.  193-195. 

7  See  I,  pp.  199-202. 

•See  I,  pp.  213-216,  223-224;  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  440. 

•See  I,  pp.  199-218,  223,  225-228. 

10Most  of  the  passages  in  the  present  essay  dealing  with  Whitman's  love  affairs  are 
reprinted  from  an  article  which  I  published  in  the  Dial  (November,  1920),  by  whose 
courteous  permission  the  reprint  is  made. 


xlviii  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

are  dead — one  living,  Southern  grandchild,  fine  boy,  writes  to  me  oc- 
casionally— circumstances  (connected  with  their  fortune  and  benefit) 
have  separated  me  from  intimate  relations."  Horace  Traubel  re- 
corded a  number  of  rather  hazy  allusions  to  the  subject  made  in  his 
presence  by  Whitman  during  the  closing  years  of  the  latter's  life,1 
and  both  he  and  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Harned  have  mentioned  the  old  poet's 
promise  to  give  them,  his  literary  executors,  a  deposition  concerning 
the  facts  of  his  "secret" — a  promise  which  he  never  found  the  right 
mood  for  keeping.2 

(2)  Whitman's  departure  from  this  congenial  Southern  city,  in 
which  he  had  pleasant  employment  and  good  health,  was  so  sudden, 
and  the  reasons  which  he  gave  for  it  seemed  so  inadequate,  that  some 
biographers  have  concluded  that  the  real  cause  was  to  be  found  in  a 
romance  which  threatened  his  prophetic  and  artistic  independence. 

(3)  Until  recently  none  of  Whitman's  characteristic  verse  could  be 
traced  back  beyond  the  1848  journey  to  New  Orleans,  so  that  the  ex- 
periences of  this  journey  are  sometimes  taken  to  have  been  the  inspira- 
tion that  liberated  his  song. 

(4)  A  poem,  "Once  I  Pass'd  through  a  Populous  City,"  seems  to  de- 
scribe a  transitory  residence  in  some  large  and  picturesque  city  of 
which  the  reminiscent  poet  recalls  only  the  passionate  attachment  of  a 
woman  who  was  broken-hearted  at  his  parting. 

From  these  facts  Mr.  H.  B.  Binns,  M.  Leon  Bazalgette,  and 
others  have  elaborated  a  fairly  complete  story,  with  the  result 
that  it  is  now  quite  commonly  assumed  that  Whitman  did  have  a 
liaison  in  New  Orleans  in  1848.  A  young  man  of  fine  personal 
presence — so  the  story  goes — he  was  seen  by  a  Southern  woman 
of  high  social  standing,  for  whom  to  see  him  was  to  love  him. 
This  attachment,  the  chief  responsibility  for  which  (despite 
Whitman's  confession  to  Symonds  of  his  own  culpability)  is 
usually  placed  at  the  lady's  door,  in  time  bore  fruit;  but  an  ob- 
stacle to  an  open  marriage  with  the  middle-class  Northern  jour- 
nalist had  been  encountered  in  the  pride  of  her  family.  Ac- 
cordingly some  versions  of  the  story  suppose  that  there  was  a 
secret  marriage  (again  despite  the  evidence  of  Whitman's 
letter  to  Symonds),  and  that  the  young  husband  was  bound  for 
life  by  a  pledge  of  secrecy  concerning  the  whole  affair.  Then, 
having  learned  in  three  months  the  mysteries  of  true  love,  and 

1See"WithWaltWhitmaninCamden,"II,pp.3i6)328,  425,510-511,  543;  III,  pp.  80, 
119-120,  140,  253,  364. 

'Horace  Traubel  has  also  told  me  of  Whitman's  surprise  and  confusion  when  the  former 
one  day  called  on  the  poet  almost  immediately  after  the  departure  of  a  visitor  who,  he 
was  told,  was  Whitman's  grandson  (or  son?). 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  xlix 

having  learned  to  forswear  them,  he  returned  north  and  began 
composing  the  "Leaves  of  Grass." 

Now,  Whitman  may  indeed  have  had  an  affaire  de  cceur  in 
New  Orleans,  but  in  the  light  of  new  evidence  we  shall  have 
to  modify  this  explanation  of  how  it  all  occurred  and  perhaps 
assign  its  date  to  a  later  journey  to  the  South,  even  if  we  do 
not  abandon  the  common  theory  altogether.  First  let  us  re- 
examine the  evidence  used  by  the  biographers.  As  we  have 
seen,  the  suddenness  and  the  unlooked-for  earliness  of  Whit- 
man's departure  from  New  Orleans  is  adequately  accounted 
for  without  supposing  that  a  woman  or  her  family  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  it.  As  to  the  a  posteriori  evidence  found  in 
the  maturer  and  more  poetic  verse  which  followed,  it  may 
be  true  that  the  first  rhythmical  lines  of  the  "Leaves"  were 
written  shortly  after  the  return  North  rather  than  just  be- 
fore;1 but  they  appear  in  a  notebook  containing  the  date  1847, 
to  which  year  we  must  assign  Whitman's  first  definite  efforts2  to 
compose  the  novel  volume  which  was  to  see  the  light  of  print 
in  1855.  The  latter  part  of  this  notebook  contains,3  it  is  true, 
the  first  draft  of  the  description  of  sexual  ecstasy  to  be  incor- 
porated in  "Song  of  Myself"  (Sections  28-30);  but  as  to  that, 
Whitman's  letter  to  Symonds,  in  its  studied  indefiniteness,  im- 
plies that  the  period  of  his  "body-jolliness"  included  his  earlier 
manhood  as  well.4  There  remains  the  evidence  of  the  poem, 
"Once  I  Pass'd  through  a  Populous  City."  This  lyric  prob- 
ably refers  to  New  Orleans,  but  its  original  form5  proves  that 
it  was  first  intended,  not  for  a  "Children  of  Adam"  poem  de- 
scriptive of  the  love  between  the  sexes,  but  for  a  "Calamus" 
poem  descriptive  of  that  "adhesiveness,"  or  attachment  of  man 
to  man,  which  Whitman  preached  as  a  complement  to  his  gospel 
of  individuality,  in  his  religion  of  sentimental  democracy.6  I 
suppose  his  reason  for  disguising  the  emotion  which  gave  birth 
to  this  poem  was  the  poet-prophet's  desire  to  avoid  a  charge  of 
effeminacy.  But  the  important  fact  made  clear  by  it  is  that  a 
Whitman  poem  of  tenderness  addressed  to  a  "rude  and  ignor- 
ant man"  (doubtless  a  counterpart  to  the  Pete  Doyle  of  the 
Washington  period)  could,  through  slight  emendations,  become 

»See  II,  p.  63,  note  I. 

2  Unless  still  earlier  notebooks  have  been  lost. 

3 See  II,  pp.  72-73. 

♦See  also  John  Burroughs's  "Notes  on  Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and  Person,"  1867,  p.  8i# 

5See  II,  pp.  102-103.        6See  II,  p.  96,  note  4. 


1  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

a  lyric  of  man-and-woman  love  on  which  biographers  might 
unsuspectingly  build  a  romantic  story.  The  history  of  the 
poem  goes  far,  I  think,  toward  showing  that  Whitman  retained 
in  manhood  some  of  the  characteristics  of  the  sexually  indis- 
criminate affection  of  a  child.  And  his  ability  to  direct  his 
romantic  sentiments  toward  man  as  well  as  toward  woman  ac- 
counts, perhaps,  for  a  certain  indefinable  attraction  which 
healthy-minded  men  like  Doctor  Bucke  no  less  than  healthy- 
minded  women  like  Mrs.  Gilchrist  have  felt  in  his  verse.  The 
artist  is  expected  to  pass  in  his  imagination  from  the  man's 
point  of  view  to  the  woman's,  and  back  again,  at  will;  Whitman 
is  almost  solitary  among  the  major  poets  of  the  world — unless 
Shakespeare  be  an  exception — in  his  tendency  to  do  this  with 
his  heart.  This  peculiarity,  he  seems  to  have  thought,  was 
what  made  him  akin  to  the  great  religious  teachers  of  the  past. 
But  he  also  knew  that  such  a  nature  would  be  misunderstood, 
and  that  it  might  even  prove  dangerous.1 

But  let  us  return  to  the  problem  of  the  New  Orleans  romance. 
It  is  now  plain  that  if  a  woman  entered  Whitman's  life  between 
March  and  May,  1848,  the  fact,  as  well  as  her  character  and 
social  position,  must  be  established  by  other  evidence.  The 
letter  to  Symonds  is  apparently  competent  testimony,  though  it 
has  at  times  been  discounted  as  being  either  a  fabrication  or  the 
result  of  hallucination;  but  it  is  not  definite  as  to  dates.2  How- 
ever, some  of  Whitman's  prose  pieces  written  for  the  Crescent 
show  how  far  he  was  from  being  insensible  to  womanly  beauty 
in  the  social  capital  of  the  South.3  Nine  days  before  he  left 
for  home  he  published  anonymously  a  humorous  skit4  describing 
his  experiences  at  a  masked  ball  where  he  met,  and  instantly  fell 
in  love  with,  a  charming  and  cultivated  lady,  who,  to  his  sudden 
discomfiture  and  chagrin,  soon  proved  to  be  already  married. 
Who,  or  what  manner  of  woman,  she  was,  it  is  of  course  im- 
possible to  determine.     She  may  have  been  one  of  the  accom- 

*See  II,  pp.  96-97. 

JIf  the  parent  of  the  "Southern  grandchild"  were  the  offspring  from  a  union  which 
took  place  in  1 848,  then  his  or  her  birth  must  naturally  have  occurred  by  1 849.  But  an 
examination,  extending  down  to  1850,  both  of  the  records  of  the  Health  Department  of 
the  city  and  of  the  archives  of  the  St.  Louis  Cathedral,  gives  no  clue  to  it.  However, 
though  all  births  were  legally  required  to  be  entered  in  the  former  and  though  the 
baptismal  records  of  the  latter  at  that  time  included  the  majority  of  both  legitimate 
and  natural  births  in  the  city,  neither  record  is  at  all  complete. 

*See  I,  pp.  202-205,  222,  225-228. 

«"A  Night  at  the  Terpsichore  Ball,"  I,  pp.  225-228. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  li 

plished  vampires  who  infested  the  New  Orleans  of  that  day,1 
who,  finding  that  he  had  less  wealth  than  his  correct  evening 
apparel2  might  have  led  her  to  believe,  gave  the  wink  to  her 
accomplice-husband  and  thus  shook  him  off.  Or  she  may  have 
been  a  married  woman  of  social  standing  who  sought  in  a  ball- 
room flirtation  momentary  diversion  from  a  domestic  life  which 
bored  her.  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  the  chance  meeting  may 
have  proved  more  serious  to  her  and  to  him  than  Whitman's 
light  treatment  of  it  would  indicate.3  It  would  be  safer  to  pass 
the  sketch  by  as  merely  an  exaggerated,  if  indeed  not  a  fictitious, 
account  of  the  ludicrous  mistake  of  an  impulsive  youth  who,  in 
printing  it,  could  screen  himself  behind  a  nom  de  plume;  but 
the  testimony  of  one  of  Whitman's  intimate  friends4  curiously 
corroborates  this  story  if  the  latter  be  taken  as  the  narrative  of 
a  real  and  serious  attachment.  In  any  case,  something  drew 
Whitman  from  his  Northland  again,5  whether  it  was  the  "mag- 
net South"  itself,  or  the  "rude  and  ignorant  man"  celebrated 
in  the  hitherto  misinterpreted  poem  (and  presumably  also  in 
"I  Saw  in  Louisiana  a  Live-Oak  Growing"),  or  the  original  of 
the  photograph  of  the  "sweetheart  long  ago"  which  hung  in  his 
den  in  Camden.6 

iSee  "New  Orleans  as  It  Is,"  by  a  Resident  (New  Orleans),  printed  for  the  publisher, 
1850,  pp.  38-39. 

»See  I,  p.  226.        »See  I,  p.  216,  note. 

*  Mr.  Francis  Howard  Williams,  who  is  reported  (Philadelphia  Record,  August  12, 
1 91 7)  as  saying:  "Walt  was  sensitive  when  people  asked  him  why  he  never  married.  He 
talked  pretty  freely  to  me  about  his  personal  affairs.  There  was  one  woman  whom  he 
would  have  married  had  she  been  free;  that  was  the  married  woman  he  met  in  his  sojourn 
in  New  Orleans  when  a  young  man.  Her  husband  knew  of  their  love,  too,  I  believe." 
It  is  possible  that  this  woman  has  been  confused  with  a  lover  whom  Whitman  had  in 
Washington.     See  I,  p.  lviii. 

6 See  II,  p.  59,  where  Whitman  mentions  having  visited  other  Gulf  states  than  Louisi- 
ana. Cf.  Bucke's  list  of  states  visited  (Joe,  cit.,  p.  136),  which  includes  Texas.  But 
the  1848  journey  is  accounted  for  in  detail,  and  did  not  include  Texas  (see  II, 
pp.  77-79,  and  also  Herbert  Harlakenden  Gilchrist's  "Anne  Gilchrist,  Her  Life 
and  Writings,"  London,  1887,  p.  253).  On  the  whole  it  seems  probable  that  Whitman 
had  visited  Texas  on  a  later  journey  to  the  South.  In  the  list  of  newspapers  to  which 
he  had  contributed,Whitman  included  one  in  Colorado  which  he  thought  was  the  Jimple- 
cute  ("Complete  Prose,"  pp.  1 88-1 89).  In  "  Slang  in  America"  he  alludes  to  "  The  Jimp- 
lecute,  of  Texas"  {Ibidem,  p.  409).  Now,  there  is  not,  and  so  far  as  I  can  discover 
never  was,  a  paper  by  that  title  in  Colorado;  whereas  there  has  been,  since  1865, 
a  Jimplecute  published  at  Jefferson,  Texas.  Another  hint  that  Whitman  had  made 
journeys  of  which  we  have  no  definite  record  is  to  be  found  in  a  casual  allusion  to 
the  fact  of  his  having  explored  the  Mammoth  Cave  in  Kentucky  (Brooklyn  Times, 
February  4, 1858),  which  he  could  hardly  have  done  on  the  1848  journey  to  New  Orleans. 
See  also  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  251. 

•See  II,  p.  60. 


Hi  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

Whether  this  journey  brought  an  entanglement  into  his  life 
or  not,  it  was  important  in  that  it  opened  his  eyes  to  the  spirit 
and  the  prospects  of  the  great  West  and  of  the  South;  it  helped 
to  make  of  him,  even  during  reconstruction  times,  the  poet 
of  the  whole  people;  and  it  introduced  him  to  experiences  until 
then  strange  to  his  eye  and  soul. 

The  return  journey  was,  naturally,  a  little  longer  in  point 
of  time  than  the  journey  southward  had  been.  A  week  was 
spent  on  a  Mississippi  steamboat  in  reaching  St.  Louis.1  Chi- 
cago was  given  a  cursory  inspection.2  Lakes  Michigan  and 
Huron  were  traversed  and  the  Niagara  Falls  were  gazed  upon  in 
unrestrained  awe.3  The  scenery  along  the  banks  of  the  Hudson, 
south  of  Albany,  he  pronounced  the  grandest  he  had  ever  be- 
held.4 At  five  o'clock  on  Wednesday,  June  15,  he  was  at 
home  again — four  months  after  his  departure,  one  month  of 
which  had  been  spent  in  travelling.5 

5.    BROOKLYN   (1848-1862) 

Whitman  had  been  in  Brooklyn  but  a  week  when,  in  the 
Whig  press,  appeared  rumors  of  a  Barnburner  paper  to  be 
started  in  that  city,  with  Whitman  as  editor.6  The  Eagle  had 
refused  to  open  its  columns  to  reports  of  the  proceedings  of  the 
radical  Democrats,  and  this  had  determined  Judge  Samuel  E. 
Johnson7  and  other  Brooklyn  Free-soilers  to  start  a  paper  of 
their  own.  This  weekly8  paper,  the  Freeman,  was  burned  out 
in  a  great  fire  which  swept  the  business  section  of  the  city  on 
the  night  after  its  very  first  issue.9  There  was  no  insurance, 
but  the  paper  was  revived  after  two  months.10  On  April  25, 
1849,  ^  was  changed  to  a  daily,  its  staff  was  apparently  in- 

1  See  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  441.        *  Ibidem.        I  See  II,  p.  79.        « Ibidem. 

6 Ibidem,  and  cf.  "Complete  Prose,"  pp.  442-443. 

•See  Brooklyn  Daily  Advertizer,  June  23,  24,  1848. 

7 See  Henry  R.  Stiles 's  "History  of  the  City  of  Brooklyn,"  1870,  III,  p.  938;  also 
Chandos-Fulton's  "The  Local  Press,"  Brooklyn  Standard,  November  5,  1864. 

8 The  Freeman  was  first  published  at  no  Orange  Street,  later  at  96  Myrtle  Avenue, 
at  Fulton  and  Middagh,  and  on  Fulton  near  Myrtle.     See  II,  p.  3,  note  1. 

•September  9,  1848.    See  Brooklyn  Evening  Star,  of  that  date,  also  II,  p.  254. 

10When  the  paper  was  again  commenced,  on  November  I,  Whitman  said  in  it:  "The 
fire  which  burnt  us  clean  out,  as  we  began  at  our  former  place,  completely  deranged  the 
arrangements  previously  made.  We  had  not  much  to  lose;  but  of  what  we  had  not  a 
shred  was  saved — no  insurance.  This  time  we  are  determined  to  go  ahead.  Smiles  or 
frowns,  thick  or  thin,  we  shall  establish  a  Radical  Newspaper  in  Kings  County.  Will  it 
remain  to  be  said  that  the  friends  of  Liberal  Principles  here  give  it  a  meagre  and  luke- 
warm aid?"     (Quoted  in  the  Brooklyn  Evening  Star,  November  1.) 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  liii 

creased,1  and  its  circulation  extended.  However,  Whitman's 
valedictory,  full  of  bitter  defiance  toward  his  enemies,  appeared 
within  the  year  (September  n,  1849). 2  Persistent  search  has 
failed  to  bring  to  light  a  single  copy  of  this  short-lived  sheet. 
Had  we  a  file  of  it,  perhaps  we  should  discover  evidences  of 
Whitman's  growing  hatred  of  the  spread  of  slavery,  such  as  we 
do  not  expect  to  find  in  the  Crescent.  Possibly,  too,  we  should 
discover  some  lost  verse. 

For  during  this  period  Whitman  was  experimenting  with  new 
forms  of  verse.  The  "Isle  of  La  Belle  Riviere,"3  what  would 
now  be  called  an  imagist  poem,  was  written  on  Blennerhasset 
Island,  in  the  Ohio,  in  1849  or  I^5°>4  possibly  on  a  second  jour- 
ney to  the  South.  The  political  lampoon,  "Song  for  Certain 
Congressmen,"5  appeared  in  Bryant's  Evening  Post  on  March  2, 
1850,  over  the  pseudonym  "Paumanok."  This  was  an  un- 
poetic  thing,  but  not  because  of  unconventionality  in  form. 
In  the  same  month,  however,  Whitman  published  his  first 
free  verse,  "Blood-Money,"  republished  it  after  a  few  weeks,6 
and  two  months  later  followed  it  with  other  poems  in  the  same 
form:  "The  House  of  Friends,"7  and  "Resurgemus."8  All  of 
these  poems,  it  should  be  noted,  were  inspired  by  indignation 
at  political  injustice  or  treachery,  the  "Song  for  Certain  Con- 
gressmen" being  occasioned  by  rumours  of  Webster's  coming 
defection  from  Free-soil  principles,  and  "Blood-Money"  by 
his  Seventh  of  March  speech  9  and  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law. 
Thus  political  rather  than  personal  events  seem  to  have  been 

*Mr.  Daniel  M.  Tredwell,  in  his  "Personal  Reminiscences  of  Men  and  Things  on  Long 
Island"  (Brooklyn,  1912,  II,  p.  212),  says  that  on  March  12,  1848,  he  engaged  to  take  a 
position  on  the  Freeman  under  Whitman,  and  that  on  April  25,  the  new  sheet  came  out 
and  was  much  complimented.  He  confuses  the  daily  with  the  weekly,  and  so  his  dates  are 
just  a  year  too  early.  Mr.  Tredwell  was  then  a  law  student,  and  was  engaged  to  write 
up  the  court-house  news  for  the  new  daily,  at  ten  dollars  a  week. 

sQuoted  in  the  Eagle,  September  11 :  "After  the  present  date,  I  withdraw  entirely 
from  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Freeman.  To  those  who  have  been  my  friends,  I  take  oc- 
casion to  proffer  the  warmest  thanks  of  a  grateful  heart.  My  enemies — and  old  Hunk- 
ers generally — I  disdain  and  defy  the  same  as  ever.    Walter  Whitman." 

8See  I,  pp.  24-25. 

«See  I,  p.  24,  note.  Since  Whitman's  whereabouts  can  now  be  stated  definitely  for  the 
period  before  September,  1849,  and  for  that  after  June,  1850,  whereas  we  know  nothing 
of  his  movements  between  those  dates  (unless  the  publication  of  "  Blood-Money "  on 
March  22  be  significant)  it  seems  to  me  very  likely  that  a  second  trip  South  was  made 
in  the  fall  of  1849. 

6Title  changed  to  "Dough-Face  Song,"  "Complete  Prose,"  pp.  334-335. 

•In  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  April  30. 

7 1,  pp.  25-27.        s  I,  pp.  27-30. 

*Whittier's  "Ichabod,"  similarly  inspired,  appeared  a  few  days  later. 


liv  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

hurrying  Whitman  toward  his  destined  career  as  a  reformatory- 
poet.  "Resurgemus"  is  the  earliest  separate  and  complete 
poem  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  known  to  have  been  previ- 
ously published.  It  indicates  that  Whitman's  poetic  ambition, 
which  for  two  or  three  years  had  been  "hovering  on  the  flanks," 
as  he  said,  is  now  leading  him  into  unconventional  publications 
and  straight  toward  the  versification  of  1855. 

Concerning  Whitman's  employment  in  1 850-1 851,  biographies 
have  never  agreed.  Some  of  them,  following  Whitman  himself, 
have  placed  the  Freeman  venture  in  these  years;  others  have 
supposed  this  to  have  been  the  period  of  his  house-building. 
Neither  statement  is  correct.  Apparently  Whitman  was  as 
much  a  journalist  as  ever;  but  now,  instead  of  being  in  charge  of 
a  paper,  he  had  to  resort  to  what  odd  jobs  he  could  get.  In  May 
andJune,i85o — perhaps  for  a  longer  period — he  had  some  anony- 
mous connection  with  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Advertizer,  a  Whig 
sheet,  for  which  he  wrote  a  series  of  "Paragraph  Sketches  of 
Brooklynites,"1  much  of  which  was  to  be  worked  over  in  the 
"Brooklyniana"  of  1 861-1862.  Just  how  much  he  wrote  for  the 
Advertizer  is  unknown,  but  mention  should  be  made  of  a  signed 
editorial  in  it2  which  he  published  to  urge  the  city  to  build  a  sys- 
tem of  water  works,  an  improvement  which  came  within  a  few 
years.  During  1 85 1  he  wrote  five  prose  contributions  for  the  New 
York  Evening  Post,  most  of  them  signed  "Paumanok."3  I 
think  it  likely  that  it  was  Whitman  also  who  contributed 
the  Brooklyn  notes  to  the  "  City  Intelligence  "  column  of  the 
Post  in  1 851-1852.  At  any  rate,  the  indications  are  that  the 
pen,  rather  than  carpenter's  tools,  was  yet  his  chief  source 
of  income.  The  making  of  an  income,  however,  was  far  from 
the  dominant  concern  of  this  crescent  poet,  whose  first-born 
song  was  soon  to  be  delivered  in  a  world  unprepared  to  receive 
it.  He  took  an  increased  interest  in  art  and  in  artists,4  entered 
familiarly  into  the  hopeful  Bohemia  of  his  day,5  and,  in  pleading 
at  once  for  art  in  life  and  life  in  art,6  he  took  a  definite  step 
toward  his  own  authentic  career.  A  fortunately  preserved 
specimen  of  Whitman's  operatic  criticism — of  Bettini  in  "La  Fa- 
vorita"7 — not   only   reveals  his  ecstatic  sensitiveness   to   the 

iSee  I,  pp.  234-235. 
»"A  Plea  for  Water,"  I,  pp.  254-255. 

•See  I,  pp.  236-238,  239-241,  247-249,  250-254,  255-259.        «See  I,  pp.  236-238, 
241-247.         6See  I,  p.  237. 
•See  I,  pp.  236-237,  241-247.        'See  I,  pp.  255-259. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  lv 

charm  of  this  tenor,  whose  singing  was  gratefully  remembered 
for  forty  years,1  but  also  the  mystical  exaltation  he  felt  in 
contemplating  the  grandeur  of  nature,  both  of  which  con- 
tributed, perhaps,  to  the  profound  mystical  experience  which 
by  biographers  has  commonly  been  assigned  to  Whitman's 
early  thirties.  It  is  only  natural  that  his  style  should  gradually 
become  more  serious,  tempered,  mature,  and  attractive.2  But 
one  is  not  to  conclude  that  Whitman  was  merely  an  artist 
engrossed  with  his  art  or  a  mystic  withdrawn  from  life.  Even 
in  an  address  to  an  "art  union"  he  deliberately  takes  occasion 
to  satirize  the  want  of  taste  displayed  in  American  fashions3  and 
the  want  of  poise  and  dignity  in  American  manners,4  while  in  the 
"Letters  from  Paumanok"5  he  describes  with  appropriate  sim- 
plicity the  "powerful  uneducated  persons"  he  encounters  while 
summering  on  east  Long  Island.  Nor  was  Whitman's  contact 
with  the  real  world — so  imperatively  demanded  as  a  counter 
influence  to  his  artistic  and  religious  subjectivity — limited  to 
mere  observation  or  to  sympathetic  "absorption."  He  was  a 
public-spirited  citizen,  proud  of  his  American  birthright  and 
determined  to  exercise  it,  in  a  day  of  half-achieved  democracy, 
in  shaping  his  city  more  to  his  liberty-loving  heart's  desire. 
When,  in  1854,  the  Common  Council  and  the  Mayor  of  Brook- 
lyn undertook  to  forbid  the  running  of  street  cars  or  the  open- 
ing of  restaurants,  and  otherwise  to  enforce  by  law  the  strict 
observance  of  the  Sabbath,  Whitman,  the  individualist,  ad- 
dressed a  memorial6  to  the  city  fathers  protesting  in  no  slavish 
tones  against  prohibitory  and  meddling  puritanism  in  the  city 
administration  in  general,  and  against  the  restrictions  imposed 
upon  street  railways,  bakeries,  and  restaurants  in  particular. 

The  year  1855  was>  °f  course,  a  turning  point,  or  rather  a 
date  of  metamorphosis,  in  the  life  of  Whitman.  Through  a 
long  development,  brought  to  a  climax  by  mystical  experience, 
he  had  attained  the  immortal  youth  of  spirit  which  one  associ- 
ates with  the  creative  artist.  He  still  dreamed,  but  his  dreams 
were  thenceforth  no  longer  mere  rapturous  observation;  instead 
they  were  the  pregnant  dreams  of  a  seer.  He  continued  to 
preach,  but  now  with  an  authority  unlearned  of  the  scribes. 

»See  "Complete  Prose,"  pp.  427,  499,  514-515. 

»See  I,  pp.  234-235,  236-239,  241-247,  255-259,  259-264.        »See  I,  pp.  246-247. 

«See  I,  p.  245;  cf.  pp.  168-170.  »See  I,  pp.  247-249,  250-254. 

•See  I,  pp.  259-264. 


lvi  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

The  new  poetry,  however,  made  no  popular  headway,  and  was 
absolutely  unremunerative.  As  a  result  the  poet  was  forced 
to  remain  a  journalist  as  well. 

At  some  date  not  later  than  June,  1857,1  he  became  editor  of 
the  Brooklyn  Daily  Times,2  a  position  which  he  retained  as  late 
as  January,  1859.3  He  continued  to  be  interested  in  his  poetry 
and  in  its  dissemination,  seeking  even  to  have  it  translated  into 
the  German.4  This  divided  interest  accounts,  at  least  in  part, 
for  the  fact  that  his  Times  editorials  were  more  detached,  remi- 
niscent, judicial  than  had  been  his  compositions  for  the  Eagle. 
Occasionally  his  editorials  throw  light  on  his  poetry.  His  dis- 
cussion of  the  evils  of  prostitution,5  for  example,  not  only  re- 
veals an  advanced  interest  in  sociology,  but  it  gives  also  a  hint  as 
to  why,  in  the  i860  edition  of  his  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  he  was  to 
emphasize  what  he  considered  the  normal  and  healthy  physiol- 
ogy of  sex.  That  his  motive  in  this  was  to  combat  the  unclean 
prudery  to  which  he  traced  much  of  the  shockingly  preva- 
lent vice  of  the  day,  and  not  to  celebrate  free-love,  is  indicated 
by  his  strictures  on  free-love  in  another  editorial.6  His  socio- 
logical interest  often  took  him,  as  previously  in  Brooklyn  and 
New  Orleans,  to  the  police  courts,  in  his  reports  of  which  he 
mingles  a  motherly  tenderness  with  his  satire.7  Such  sketches 
place  the  stamp  of  utter  sincerity  upon  poems  like  "You  Felons 
on  Trial  in  Courts"  (i860).8  .  .  .  This  is  the  period  in  his 
life  when,  if  ever,  Whitman  might  be  expected  to  feel  the  need 
of  a  home  of  his  own.  Perhaps  he  did,  momentarily  at  least;9 
but  the  most  congenial  atmosphere  that  he  found  was  that  of 
PfafFs  bohemian  restaurant,10  where  he  discussed  politics,  art, 
and  literature  with  a  group  of  young  writers  as  ambitious  as  he, 
but  less  gifted.  Believing  (like  Longfellow  and  Lowell)  that 
no  other  poet  in  America  was  attempting  to  perform  the  task 
assigned  to  himself,11  he  uncovered  his  heart  more  and  more 
unreservedly  in  his  verse,  in  comparison  to  which  the  man  he 
exhibits  in  the  cafes  and  on  the  streets  is  but  a  shadow.12    As 

1  See  II,  p.  i,  note. 

2Then  published  at  145  Grand  Street,  Williamsburg. 

•See  II,  p.  1,  note.        4 Ibidem.        *See  II,  pp.  5-8. 

•See  II,  p.  7,  note.     But  cf.  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  III,  pp.  438-439. 

7  See  II,  pp.  10-12. 

8"Leaves  of  Grass,"  1917,  II,  p.  160. 

•See  II,  p.  19.        10See  II,  pp.  92-93.        "See  II,  p.  91.        12See  II,  p.  93. 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  lvii 

his  peculiar  mission  becomes  clearer  to  him,  its  religious  nature 
grows  in  importance,  until  he  regards  himself  as  the  prospective 
founder  of  a  religion  comparable  to  Christianity  itself,  though 
humbly  acknowledging  his  indebtedness  to  both  the  Hebrew  and 
the  Greek.1  By  this  time  Whitman  is  a  full-fledged  Hegelian — 
pragmatic,  transcendental,  evolutionary. 

During  i860  Whitman  was  engrossed  in  the  publication  of 
the  first  Boston  edition  of  his  poems;  but  when  the  outbreak  of 
the  war  stopped  the  sales  of  his  book,  he  turned  again  to  the 
newspapers  for  a  livelihood.  While  editing  the  Brooklyn  Times, 
he  had  written  an  article  reminiscent  of  the  early  days  in  Brook- 
lyn,2 which  showed  that  he  was  drawing  inspiration  from  the 
past  as  well  as  from  the  future.3  Now  he  proposes  to  elaborate 
the  idea  by  publishing,  in  the  Brooklyn  weekly  Standard, 
a  series  of  articles  on  the  history  of  the  city.  This  claimed  to 
be  something  of  an  innovation  for  the  press,4  but  Whitman  was 
nothing  if  not  an  innovator.  The  "Brooklyniana"  papers5 
were  copyrighted  and  eulogistically  advertized  by  the  Standard* 
and,  if  we  may  take  the  word  of  the  editor  for  it,  they  were  well 
paid  for.  Their  publication  was  interrupted,  however,  while 
Whitman  took  one  of  his  characteristic  rambling  journeys  to 
his  old  haunts  on  Long  Island7 — fishing  at  Montauk  Point,8 
living  with  idyllic  unceremoniousness  among  the  country  and 
fisher  folk,9  making  himself  a  boon  companion,10  and  studying 
with  a  poet's  eye  the  beauties  of  nature.11  Nor  was  this  really 
out  of  character  in  the  man  who  was  soon  to  be  so  closely  con- 
nected with  the  horrors  of  the  war  that  was  already  raging.  I 
think  Whitman  had  a  prophetic  sense  of  the  fact  that  his  own 
life,  like  that  of  his  country,  was  near  a  historic  turning;  and  he 
was  here  taking  a  lingering  farewell  of  beloved  scenes  which, 
after  the  war,  he  should  never  be  able  to  look  upon  with  the 
same  eyes  again.  ...  He  had  barely  concluded  the  twenty- 
five  articles  in  the  series  when  an  accident — the  wounding  of  his 
brother  George,  erroneously  reported  as  serious — called  him  to 
the  war  front,  and  so  introduced  him  to  his  life  of  composite 
service  as  a  "welfare  worker"  and  surgeon's  helper,  on  the 
battlefield  and  in  the  Washington  hospitals.12 

^ee  II,  pp.  91-92.        2See  II,  pp.  1-5.  »See  I,  pp.  246-247. 

4  See  II,  p.  223,  note. 

8See  II,  pp.  222-321.        «See  II,  p.  223,  note.         7See  II,  p.  222,  note,  306-321. 

sSee  II,  p.  313.        'See  II,  pp.  313-321;  cf.  I,  pp.  247-254.        10 Ibidem. 

uSee  II,  pp.  314,  3i7~318,  320. 

12 See  II,  pp.  21-22,  27-29,  33-34,  93. 


lviii  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 


6.    WASHINGTON  (1863-1873) 

In  camp  and  on  the  battlefield  Whitman  not  only  received 
impressions  which  were  later  to  be  coined  into  the  incomparable 
little  poems  of  "  Drum-Taps," 1  but  he  formed  associations  which 
developed  his  sensitiveness  to  manly  friendship.2  In  the  pres- 
ence of  death  he  learned  a  new  lesson  in  immortality,3  and  saw, 
as  before  he  had  only  dreamed  of,  the  spiritual  resources  of  the 
painfully  unifying  nation.4  Returning  to  Washington  with  the 
wounded,  he  devoted  a  moiety  of  his  time  to  supporting  himself 
by  contributions  to  the  New  York  and  Brooklyn  papers5  and 
by  copying  for  Major  Hapgood,  an  army  paymaster6;  but  his 
real  interest  lay  in  the  pathetic  and  heroic  sights  of  the  hos- 
pitals7 and  in  the  picturesque  spectacles  of  the  capital  in  war- 
time.8 His  realistic  descriptions  of  these  will  not  be  lost  on  a 
generation  of  readers  who  have  themselves  just  emerged  from  an 
unromantic  conflict.  To  Whitman  the  Civil  War  was  not  a 
mediaeval  adventure,  its  tragedy  obscured  by  chivalric  glamour, 
but  a  great  spiritual  struggle  for  national  ideals,  in  the  light  of 
which  alone  its  inhuman  horror  was  endurable.9  At  times  he 
doubted  the  success  of  the  Union  cause,10  as  he  at  times  doubted 
the  success  of  his  own  poetic  mission;11  but  when  the  forces  of 
nationalism  finally  brought  the  war  to  a  victorious  close,  he  had 
deep  cause  for  rejoicing,  inasmuch  as  he  loved  the  South  as  he 
loved  the  North.12  These  war-time  letters  and  the  descriptive 
articles  sent  in  1873  to  the  New  York  Daily  Graphic13  throw  much 
light  upon  the  passing  show  that  attracted  his  outward  eye. 
But  underneath  his  entertaining  exterior  Whitman  was  suffer- 
ing a  private  disappointment,  if  not  indeed  a  tragedy.14  He 
passionately  loved  a  woman  who  was,  like  Thackeray's  inamor- 
ata, married  to  another.15    This  attachment  (possibly  but  not 

»See  II,  p.  93.        *See  II,  pp.  21,  93,  96  and  note.        *See  II,  p.  22. 

•See  II,  pp.  23,  30-31,  102;  cf.  I,  p.  156.        «See  U>  PP-  23>  26-29,  29~36>  37~42- 

•See  II,  pp.  23,  25.  Later  he  had  a  clerkship,  first  in  the  Interior,  and  later  in  the 
Attorney-General's,  Department. 

7 See  II,  pp.  22-23,  27~29>  31-        8See  II,  pp.  22-23,  25>  2^~3^y  passim. 

•See  II,  pp.  22,  30-31;  cf.  p.  43.        "See  II,  pp.  26,  101. 

"See  II,  p.  101.        "See  II,  pp.  21,  102.    13See  II,  pp.  42-49,  49_53- 

14 See  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  II,  p.  543. 

16 In  the  original  draft  of  the  article,  "Personal  Recollections  of  Walt  Whitman," 
which  Mrs.  Ellen  M.  Calder  (formerly  Mrs.  William  D.  O'Connor)  wrote  for  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  (June,  1907)  appears  a  very  important  but  for  some  reason  unpublished  passage. 
The  manuscript  from  which  I  quote  is  in  the  Bucke  collection. 

"He  [Whitman]  had  met  a  certain  lady,  and  by  some  mischance  a  letter  revealing 


INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL  lix 

probably  a  continuation  of  the  one  commonly  associated  with 
New  Orleans)  ended  unhappily,1  but  it  seems  to  have  given 
birth  to  a  considerable  amount  of  Whitman's  poetry  dating 
from  this  period.2  Moreover,  during  the  latter  part  of  his 
residence  in  Washington  his  emotional  attachment  to  his  own 
sex  threatened  to  destroy  the  poise  and  aplomb  of  his  life.3 
But  disappointment,  physical  affliction,  and  struggles  with  him- 
self finally  brought  peace  to  his  passion-torn  heart  and  serenity 
to  his  poems.4 

7.    CAMDEN  (1873-1892) 

The  war  over  and  recorded  in  the  1867  volume  of  poems,  the 
hospitals  closed  and  summed  up  in  the  "Calamus"  and  "Wound 


her  friendship  for  him  fell  into  her  husband's  hands,  which  made  this  gentleman  very 
indignant  and  jealous,  and  thereupon,  in  the  presence  of  his  wife  and  another  lady,  he 
abused  Walt.  All  that  excited  Walt's  sympathy  for  the  lady,  over  and  above  the  admi- 
ration and  affection  he  felt  for  her,  so  that  in  telling  about  it,  he  said  'I  would  marry  that 
woman  to-night  if  she  were  free.'  Correspondence  was  kept  up  between  them  for  some 
time  after  that,  and  he  was  very  strongly  attracted  to  this  lady.  This  is  the  only  in- 
stance I  have  known  where  he  was  strongly  attracted  toward  any  woman  in  this  way. 
It  was  this  lady  for  whom  he  wrote  the  little  poem  in  'Children  of  Adam'  beginning: 
'Out  of  the  rolling  ocean,  the  crowd,'  etc. 

"Describing  this  lady  to  me  he  said  that  she  was  quite  fair,  with  brown  hair  and  eyes, 
and  rather  plump  and  womanly  and  sweet  and  gentle,  and  he  said  that  she  bore  herself 
with  so  much  dignity  and  was  so  keenly  hurt  by  what  her  husband  said,  that  I  think 
that  drew  her  to  him  more.     It  was  in  '64  (?). 

"In  connection  with  the  above: — The  idea  that  he  conveyed  to  me  was  that  he  did  not 
think  it  would  have  been  well  for  him  to  have  formed  that  closest  of  ties,  he  was  so  fond  of 
his  freedom,  it  would  have  been  a  great  mistake  if  he  had  ever  married.  He  said  to  me 
many  times  that  he  did  not  envy  men  their  wives  but  that  he  did  envy  them  their  chil- 
dren. He  often  used  this  expression,,  'Well,  if  I  had  been  caught  young  I  might  have 
done  certain  things  or  formed  certain  habits.'" 

It  will  not  escape  the  reader  that  practically  all  our  trustworthy  evidence  on  Whit- 
man's romance  points  to  a  married  woman  as  his  paramour.  If  by  such  a  woman,  or 
women,  he  actually  had  offspring,  then  the  enigmatic  language  of  his  confession  to  Sy- 
monds  would  grow  clearer.  It  would  mean  that,  on  the  birth  of  the  child,  the  three 
principals  in  the  tragic  triangle  agreed  to  keep  the  matter  quiet,  sacrificing  their  own 
individual  feelings  in  the  interest  of  the  legal,  social,  and  financial  "benefit"  of  the 
innocent  child.  Yet  it  should  be  remembered  that  the  very  existence  of  these  children 
rests  entirely  upon  the  testimony  of  Whitman  himself. 

1See  II,  pp.  94-96. 

2See  second  note  above;  cf.  also  "To  a  Certain  Civilian"  (1865),  "Not  Youth  Per- 
tains to  Me"  (1865),  "O  Me!  O  Life!"  (1865),  "Ah,  Poverties,  Wincings,  and  Sulky 
Retreats"  (1865),  and  "I  Heard  You,  Solemn-Sweet  Pipes  of  the  Organ"  (1865-1866). 
See  also  II,  p.  93.  1 

3  See  II,  p.  96. 

«See,  in  particular,  "Give  Me  the  Splendid  Silent  Sun"  (1865),  "Passage  to  India" 
(1871;  Part  5,  at  least,  was  written  before  January  20,  1869),  "Pioneers!  O  Pioneers!" 
(1865),  "Darest  Thou  Now  O  Soul"  (1868),  and  "Prayer  of  Columbus"  (1 874). 


lx  INTRODUCTION:  BIOGRAPHICAL 

Dresser"  letters  and  in  the  notes  for  "Specimen  Days,"  Whit- 
man was,  in  1873,  stricken  with  paralysis.  He  removed  to 
Camden,  New  Jersey,  in  which  his  sun,  that  had  witnessed 
such  an  expansive,  tragic,  hopeful  half-century,  was  to  set 
twenty  years  later.  From  his  invalid's  chair  he  wrote  down 
scraps  of  ideas  for  friendly  New  York  journals  like  the  Daily 
Graphic,  discussing  art,  poetry,  the  drama,  culture,  politics,  de- 
mocracy.1 A  few  years  before  his  death  he  indulged  in  one 
of  the  anonymous  self-criticisms2  with  which  he  had  earlier 
sought  to  extend  the  knowledge  of  the  inner  meaning  of  his  life 
and  work.  These  reminiscences  review  the  whole  of  his  varied 
life. 

Thus,  in  the  writings  brought  together  for  preservation  in  the 
present  volumes,  one  can  trace  Whitman's  personal  and  literary 
growth  from  his  youth  up,  revealed  all  the  more  candidly  in 
publications  and  manuscripts  which  he  never  wrote  for  preserva- 
tion over  his  own  name.  In  particular,  the  collection  increases 
our  knowledge  of  the  following  hitherto  obscure  periods  in  his 
biography:  (1)  his  youth  and  apprenticeship,  (2)  his  residence  at 
Jamaica  in  183  9-1 841,  (3)  his  single  attempt  at  fiction,  (4)  his 
connection  with  the  Brooklyn  Eagle,  1 846-1 848,  (5)  his  trip  to, 
and  his  life  in,  New  Orleans,  together  with  his  romances,  there 
or  elsewhere,  (6)  his  connection  with  the  Brooklyn  Advertizer, 
the  New  York  Tribune,  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  the  Brook- 
lyn Times,  and  the  Brooklyn  Standard,  and  (7),  most  important 
of  all,  the  growth  of  the  First  Edition  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass." 

1  See  II,  pp.  53-58. 

2  See  II,  pp.  95-62. 


INTRODUCTION:   CRITICAL 

I.    WHITMAN'S  PROSE 

i.    Relation  of  His  Prose  to  His  Verse 

It  was  not  by  publishing  the  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  at  the  age  of 
thirty-six,  that  Whitman  began  to  be  either  original  or  eccentric. 
Though  in  varying  degrees,  his  prose  is  as  truly  individual  as 
his  verse.  One  finds  it  possible,  indeed,  to  trace  many  of  the 
faults  and  virtues  of  his  poetry  back  to  his  earlier  prose.  As 
much  was  to  have  been  expected,  though  as  yet  nobody  has  in- 
quired particularly  into  the  matter.  Whatever  unanalyzable 
influx  of  vision,  of  taste,  or  of  power  may  have  come  to  Whitman 
through  the  mystical  experiences  of  mid-life,  the  utterance  of 
his  enlarged  being  was  conditioned  by  what  he  had  previously 
been.  For  when  it  introduces  genius  as  a  veritable  deus  ex 
machina,  biography  degenerates  into  superstitious  hero-worship. 
Genius  there  is,  else  there  would  be  fewer  occasions  for  biography; 
but  we  can  make  no  progress  by  asserting  that  genius  is  superior 
to  the  laws  of  causation,  albeit  their  operation  may  lie  deeply 
hidden  from  the  eyes  of  even  the  man  of  genius  himself.  The 
critic,  no  less  than  the  biographer,  needs  to  be  familiar  with 
the  writings  of  Whitman's  youth,  regardless  of  their  intrinsic 
interest  or  value. 

2.    Difficulties  in  Studying  Whitman's  Early  Prose 

In  tracing  Whitman's  poetic  peculiarities  to  his  earlier  prose, 
difficulty  is  encountered  in  determining  the  precise  limits  of  his 
responsibility.  Most  of  the  prose  included  in  the  present  col- 
lection comes  to  us  either  in  the  form  of  manuscript  or  in  the 
form  of  magazine  and  newspaper  writing.  But  since  the  manu- 
script was  seldom,  if  ever,  used  in  its  present  form  for  publishing 
copy,  it  is  unfair  to  suppose  that  it  represents  Whitman's  ideal; 
and  though  he  himself  read  the  proofs  of  most  of  the  newspaper 

lxi 


lxii  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

writing  here  reprinted,1  there  was  still  abundant  opportunity 
for  typographical  variation  from  his  copy  or  proofs.  Moreover, 
we  must  keep  in  mind  the  haste  in  which  newspaper  writing 
was  done  in  the  day  of  small  editorial  staffs.1  The  frequency 
and  the  uniformity  of  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  his  prose,  how- 
ever, are  enough  to  convince  us  that  Whitman  tolerated  them, 
if  indeed  he  did  not  insist  upon  them. 

3.    The  Mechanics  of  Writing 

His  system  of  punctuation,  for  instance,  was  unique.  Neither 
his  contemporaries  nor  the  newspapers  on  which  he  had  served 
his  apprenticeship  punctuated  just  as  he  did.  There  was  a 
meticulousness  about  it  which  sometimes  defeated  its  own  ob- 
ject. A  parenthesis  seldom  sufficed,  but  it  must  be  reinforced 
with  commas.3  .  .  .  Throughout  his  entire  career  as  a  prose 
writer  Whitman  relied  as  much  upon  the  dash  as  Poe  did  in 
his  verse,  and  that  without  Poe's  excuse  for  overworking  the 
careless  and  ineffective  mark.  This  abuse  of  the  dash  (some- 
times to  emphasize  the  period)  appears  in  one  of  his  earliest  man- 
uscripts as  prepared  for  the  printer.4  It  occurs  in  his  editorials,6 
and  in  his  formal  memorial  to  the  City  Council.6  From  his 
mystical  notebooks7  it  passes  naturally  into  his  free  verse.8  It 
agrees  so  well  with  his  habit  of  panoramic  observation,9  with 
his  style  of  rapid,  terse,  suggestive  description,10  and  with  his 
emotional  periods11  that  it  must  be  taken  to  have  been  char- 
acteristic of  his  mental  processes.  Sometimes  the  dash  is  em- 
ployed at  the  beginning  of  the  paragraph,  as  if  to  accentuate 
the  break  in  the  thought.12  Frequently  the  period  and  dash  is 
abandoned  in  favour  of  the  French  series  of  points,13  indicating 
a  feeling  for  precision  of  form — even  where  the  general  effect  is 
so  deliberately  indefinite! — which  I  have  not  observed  in  the 

*In  some  cases  he  did  the  composing  himself,  though  not  often.  He  was  his  own 
compositor  on  the  Long  Islander  and  his  one-time  office  boy,  Mr.  William  S.  Sutton, 
has  told  me  that  when  editor  of  the  Eagle  Whitman  was  very  particular  about  his  proofs. 

a  See  I,  p.  116. 

•See  I,  pp.  174,  176,  179,  181.  This  style  of  punctuation  was  more  common  in 
the  eighteenth  century  than  in  the  nineteenth,  and  might  have  been  taught  Whitman 
by  much  older  men,  like  William  Hartshorne. 

«See  II,  pp.  97-101.        sSee  I,  pp.  117-118,  121-125,  144-146.. 

•  See  I,  pp.  263-264.        7See  II,  pp.  63-68. 

•  See  II,  pp.  91-93.        »See  I,  pp.  141-144,  ^93~l9S>  "3-224;  H,  pp.  25,  47-48. 
"See  I,  pp.  107,  140.        "See  I,  pp.  72-73,  172-174,  242,  245,  256-257,  263-264. 
12See  I,  pp.  110-113,  ii4-"7»  i74-*77- 

"See  I,  pp.  126,  137,  139,  140-144,  i47»  *$$-*&»  i59~i6o>  223-224;  cf.  pp.  27-30. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  hdii 

contemporary  press.  This  habit  of  expression  led  naturally  to 
the  mystical  synthesis  of  his  poetic  "catalogues"1  wherein  he 
attempts  to  suggest  a  unifying  principle  by  a  rapid  sketching  of 
its  variant  manifestations,  very  much  as  the  effect  of  motion  is 
produced,  in  the  cinema,  by  the  rapid  sequence  of  a  multitude  of 
photographs.  Too  frequent  use  of  the  dash,  however,  tended  to 
confirm  in  Whitman  the  habits  of  carelessness  and  incoherence 
which  his  lack  of  any  thorough  apprenticeship  in  writing  made 
inevitable.  His  punctuation  at  times  really  obscures  his  mean- 
ing, as  in  the  following  sentence: 

Which  of  those  friends  or  relatives  can  say — I  have,  on  my  conscience, 
none  of  the  responsibility  of  that  man's  intemperance  and  death?2 

Like  Poe  again,  Whitman  was  fond  of  using  italics  for  the  sake 
of  emphasis,  both  in  passages  that  are  serious3  and  in  others 
that  are  humorous,4  satirical,5  or  facetious.6 

4.     Grammar 

The  poet,  says  Whitman,  is  a  man  gifted  with  the  divine 
power  of  using  words;  and  by  that  definition  he  was  himself  cer- 
tainly often  a  poet.  But  such  divinity  became  articulate  in  him 
only  after  a  long  struggle  with  a  devilish  liability  to  misuse  the 
language.  Sometimes  he  is  not  even  grammatical.7  The 
verbs  lie  and  lay  give  him  constant  trouble.8  In  a  leader  on 
the  opportunity  of  the  editorial  writer,  he  allows  "it  don,t.,,9 
Elsewhere  he  says,  "myself  and  Colby  sprang," 10  "with  I  and  my 
companion,"11  "learning  him  to  read,"12  "as  if  our  world  was 
weak,"13  "some  of  ye,"14  "all  the  hitherto  experience  of  The 
States,"15  "ain't,"16  "the  then  time,"17  "most  all,"18  "plen- 
tier,"19  "the  persons  largest  engaged  in  whaling."20  Many  of 
these  crochets  Whitman  was  slow  in  outgrowing.  An  early 
manuscript  concludes: 

1  See  I,  pp.  223-224,  242,  263-264;  II,  p.  42.        2  See  II,  p.  164. 
»See  I,  pp.  4,  66,  73,  117,  126,  149,  159-162,  180.        4See  I,  pp.  174-177. 
•See  I,  pp.  178,  205.         «See  I,  pp.  33,  177,  201,  203. 

7  Whitman  was  once  called  upon  to  defend  his  grammar  in  the  Eagle.  See  "The  Gath- 
ering of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  7-12. 

«SeeI,  pp.  6,  47,  66,  187.       9See  I,  p.  116.        10See  II,  p.  121.        "See  I,  p.  253. 
12 See  I,  p.  145.        13SeeI,  p.  no.       14 See  I,  p.  94.         15 See  II,  p.  58. 
16See  I,  p.  115.        17See  I,  p.  75.        18See  II,  p.  41.        19See  I,  p.  154. 
20  See  I,  p.  120. 


lxiv  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

So,  friendly  reader,  we  have  filled  our  column,  more  or  less,  with  a 
visit,  us  two,  to  the  Italian  opera  with  you,  etc.1 

But  as  late  as  1862,  when  he  was  forty-three,  he  could  commit  to 
print  so  slovenly  a  sentence  as  this: 

Ah,  if  these  occurrences,  and  the  foregoing  names  are  perused  by  any 
of  the  remaining  old  folks,  their  contemporaries,  we  (then  a  boy  of 
twelve  years),  have  jotted  down,  above,  they  will  surely  have  some 
curious,  perhaps  melancholy  reflections.2 

Reflections  shared,  no  doubt,  with  a  difference,  by  the  twentieth- 
century  admirer  of  Whitman.  .  .  .  Sometimes  Whitman 
was  careless  of  the  idiom  of  the  language,  as  in  such  expressions 
as  "inculcate  on,"3  and  "akin  with."4  Many  of  these  sole- 
cisms can  be  accounted  for,  I  think,  by  the  fact  that,  since  he  was 
a  slow  thinker,5  Whitman  did  not  have  time  in  his  journalistic 
prose  for  the  painstaking  revision  which  was  given  to  his  verse. 

5.     Diction 

The  besetting  sin  of  Whitman's  early  prose  is  its  lack  of 
restraint.  Readers  of  his  "Slang  in  America"  and  his  "Amer- 
ican Primer"  know  how  eagerly  he  quested  about  for  words, 
and  how  successful  he  was  in  his  etymological  predictions.6 
But  in  the  period  to  which  belong  most  of  the  selections  in  these 
volumes,  he  collected  and  employed  words  and  phrases,  including 
colloquialisms  and  slang,  with  very  little  judicial  discrimination. 
Particularly  when  he  is  attempting  to  be  "funny/'  slang  comes 
natural  to  his  pen,7  sometimes  but  not  always  enclosed  between 
apologetic  quotation  marks.  The  following  will  illustrate: 
"His  arm  must  have  ached  some,"8  "used  to  did,"9  "he  went  it 
with  a  rush,"10  "loaded  down  to  the  guards,"11 "  a  great  place  and 
no  mistake,"12  "the  thing,"13  "b'hoys,"14  "whaler,"15  "they  do 
say,"16  "doff  my  beaver,"17  "tympanums"  (ears),18  "to  go" 
(to  risk),19  "bones"  (money),20  "conceited  spark,"21  "not  to  be 

■See  II,  p.  lot.        2 See  II,  p.  296.        3  See  I,  p.  220.        4See  I,  p.  284. 
8See  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  I,  p.  249. 

"See  Mr.  H.  L.  Mencken's  "The  American  Language,"  New  York,  1919,  pp.  73,  320. 
'"Slang  was  one  of  my  specialties,"  said  Whitman  to  Traubel.     ("With  Walt  Whit- 
man in  Camden,"  I,  p.  462.) 
8SeeI,  p.  118.  9SeeI,  p.  205.        10 Ibidem.        « See  I,  p.  206. 

"See  I,  p.  224;  cf.  p.  193.        13See   I,  p.  208.         14See  I,  pp.  194,  195. 
"Seel,  p.  50.        " See  I,  p.  215.        "See  I,  p.  44.        "See  I,  p.  45. 
"Seel,  p.  201.      ^See  I,  p.  223.        21See  I,  p.  33. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxv 

beat/'1  "some  pumpkins,"2  "diggins,"3  "her  Irish  gets  up,"4 
"passes"  (mesmeric).5  Rarely  Whitman  combines  slang  with 
a  pun,  as  in  "  It  is  doubtful  whether  Cairo  will  ever  be  any  'great 
shakes,'  except  in  the  way  of  ague."6 

Foreign  terms  had  for  Whitman  the  fascination  they  often 
possess  for  young  writers  unacquainted  with  any  but  their 
mother  tongue.  Most  of  these  borrowed  expressions  are  from 
the  French  and  occur  in  the  New  Orleans  sketches.  Occasion- 
ally his  pseudo-learnedness  becomes  mere  barbarism,  as  when 
ecaille  is  used  for  ecaillers?  Sometimes  these  borrowed  words 
and  phrases  are  employed  as  slang  in  English;  sometimes  they 
are  introduced  to  give  a  superior  air  to  the  page.  Such  diction, 
of  course,  becomes  infinitely  tedious,  as  in  this  sentence  from 
the  unspeakably  affected  "Samuel  Sensitive": 

It  was  a  present  to  Julia,  that  Sam  had,  with  due  consideration  of 
the  consequences,  resolved  to  abstract  forty  dollars  and  upward  from 
his  oyster  and  billiard  account,  and  bestow  it  in  a  beautiful,  enameled, 
filagree,  morceau  of  bijouterie,  whose  value,  intrinsically,  per  se,  was 
perhaps  about  six  bits.8 

But  at  times  he  has  difficulty  with  the  diction  of  his  own 
tongue  as  well.  Not  infrequently  he  falls  into  malapropisms  as 
nonchalant  as  they  are  naive.  He  says  "unpretensive"  for 
"unpretentious,"9  "locale"  for  "location,"10  "peril"  for  "im- 
peril,"" " vocable"  for  "vocal,"*2  "deathly"  for  "deadly,"13 
"fixings"  or  "fitments"  for  "fixtures,"14  "merchantable"  for 
"mercantile,"15  and  he  declares  "obfusticated"  to  be  an 
expressive  word.16 

Whitman's  later  fear  of  "stock  poetical  touches"  is  to  be 
matched  by  his  avoidance  of  conventionality  in  his  early  prose 
diction,  an  avoidance  which  betrayed  him  into  an  excess  of 
colloquialism.  Perhaps  it  is  an  indication  of  his  desire  to  keep 
near  "the  people"17  as  distinguished  from  the  colleges  and  the 

^ee  I,  p.  119.         2See  I,  p.  183.         3See  I,  p.  177. 

4See  I,  p.  216.         5See  I,  p.  216.         6See  I,  p.  189. 

7  See  I,  p.  SIX.  Unlike  most  printers,  Whitman  was  not  a  very  accurate  speller  when 
young.  This  is  so  obvious  that  I  have  not  called  particular  attention  to  it  here;  yet  it 
had  a  bearing  on  his  use  of  malapropisms,  and  may  have  awakened  his  interest  in  sim- 
plified spelling  later  in  life. 

8See  I,  p.  216.        »See  II,  p.  49.        10See  II,  p.  35.         ■  See  I,  p.  97. 

12  See  I,  p.  201. 

"See  II,  p.  119.       14 See  I,  p.  170;  II,  p.  46.       "See  I,  p.  218.        "See  II,  p.  187. 

17  See  II,  p.  105. 


Ixvi  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

critics.  Whatever  his  motive,  such  expressions  as  "without 
these  follow,"1  "bless  their  stars,"2  "considerable  of  a  trading 
town,"3 " we  will  e'en  just  have  to  give  the  go-by,"4  and  "genteel 
squirts"5  are  sufficiently  removed  from  literary  conventionality. 
The  following  sentence  flows  so  naturally  from  Whitman's 
pen,  and  so  negligently,  as  to  create  a  presumption  that  he 
spoke  very  much  after  this  fashion: 

Every  person  attached  to  the  road  jumps  on  from  the  ground  or  some 
of  the  various  platforms,  after  the  train  starts — which  (so  imitative 
an  animal  is  man)  sets  a  fine  example  for  greenhorns  and  careless  people 
at  some  future  time  to  fix  themselves  off  with  broken  legs  or  perhaps 
mangled  bodies.6 

Nearly  all  these  colloquialisms  have  been  quoted  from  writ- 
ings belonging  to  the  period  of  Whitman's  maturity;  in  youth  he 
was,  both  as  poet  and  as  prose  man,  at  times  ridiculously  con- 
ventional and  affected  in  diction.  Sooner  than  did  his  Victorian 
ancestor,  the  modern  reader  wearies  of  such  expressions  as  "I 
bethink  me,"7  "certes,"8  "ycleped,"9  "wended,"10  "he  remem- 
bered him  of,"11  "pale  emblems  of  decay,"12  "the  gentle  orbs 
of  benevolence  and  philosophy,"13  "we  trow,"14  "aneath,"15 
"haply,"16  "it  wonders  me,"17  and  "whilome."18 

It  would  thus  be  easy  to  make  game  of  Whitman's  early 
diction,  were  that  my  purpose.  He  himself  found  fault 
with  it,  and  omitted  the  present  writings  from  his  collected 
editions.  These  faults  are  pointed  out  rather  to  show  from 
what  limitations  Whitman,  in  his  best  work,  freed  himself,  and 
also  to  make  it  clear  that  if  crudities  and  blemishes  are  dis- 
coverable in  his  more  ambitious  work  they  should  furnish  no 
cause  for  wonder,  no  occasion  for  strained  justification.  Con- 
sidering his  opportunities,  Whitman  possessed,  even  in  his 
younger  days,  a  very  comprehensive  vocabulary.  All  of  life 
was  language  to  him,  and  he  saw  life  from  many  angles.  The 
faults,  like  the  virtues,  of  his  diction  are  largely  traceable  to  the 
unlimited  range  of  his  interest.  A  vocabulary  adequate  to  the 
needs  of  the  many  types  of  prose  with  which  he  experimented 
was  in  itself  an  achievement  in  self-education.     What  Whit- 

1See  I,  p.  145.  2See  I,  pp.  149,  164.  *See  I,  p.  176.  <See  II,  p.  52. 

»See  II,  p.  68.        «See  II,  p.  307.  'See  I,  p.  103.  "See  I,  pp.  119,  174 

"See  I,  p.  211.  10 See  I,  pp.  48,  90.  u See  I,  p.  84.  B See  I,  p.  80. 

13  See  I,  p.  125.  "Seel,  p.  116.  16  See  I,  pp.  93,  160.  "See  I,  p.  73. 

17 See  I,  p.  80.  "See  I,  p.  183. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxvii 

man  needed  was  a  strong  inspiration  to  awaken  the  slumbering 
fires  of  his  soul.  When  he  had  it,  his  diction  became  clear, 
picturesque,  and  forceful,  sometimes  even  beautiful,1  but  when 
it  was  lacking — when  he  did  hack  work  or  wrote  in  a  dreamy, 
undisciplined  manner — his  diction  frayed  off  most  immorally.2 

7.    Types  of  Prose 
a.    The  News-Story 

In  attempting  to  classify  roughly  the  varied  prose  compo- 
sitions contained  in  the  present  volumes,  it  will  be  convenient  to 
begin  with  the  news-story.  But  the  use  of  the  modern  termi- 
nology must  not  be  taken  to  imply  that  in  Whitman's  day  the 
news-story  had  been  influenced  by  the  technique  of  the  short- 
story;  indeed  it  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  had  any  recognized 
technique  of  its  own.  The  reporter  had  to  rely  upon  his  wit  to 
see  something  picturesque  or  important  in  the  doings  of  the 
day;  or,  if  this  were  lacking,  something  on  which  he  might 
witticize,  moralize,  or  sentimentalize.  Such  writing  tended 
greatly  to  develop  Whitman's  sense  of  individual  freedom,  but 
it  did  not  afford  him,  on  the  other  hand,  the  rigid  discipline 
whereby  a  modern  newspaper  office  sometimes  supplies  the 
want  of  a  college  education.  His  own  reports  vary  greatly  in 
interest  and  significance.  The  earliest  we  have,3  which  belongs 
in  his  twentieth  year,  is  in  no  way  indicative  of  promise  or 
power.  As  he  grew  older  he  was  inclined  to  moralize  on  the 
passing  events  he  recorded.4  His  purpose  in  visiting  the 
police  courts,  for  instance,  was  to  hold  a  mirror  up  to  lowly  life 
and  to  play  Rhadamanthus  to  culprit  and  court  alike.5  Except 
in  the  form  of  the  news-editorial,  the  news-story  gave  Whitman, 
however,  little  opportunity  to  display  his  best  prose.  Fortu- 
nately, therefore,  he  was  (so  far  as  we  know)  never  a  mere 
reporter;6  and  when,  in  New  Orleans,  he  was  the  "scissors 
editor,"7  he  was  inclined  to  write  an  editorial  on  an  event8  or 
else  to  let  the  exchanges  do  the  work  for  him.9  And  so 
ardent  a  reformer  was  he  that  no  chance  was  missed  to  cull 

1E.  g.,  I,  pp.  102-103,  107-108,  154-156,  168-170,  I7I-174,  l8l-l86,  220-221, 
236-238,  24I-247,  255-259;  II,  pp.  I I2-I20,  320. 

2E.g.t  I,  pp.  44-46,  117,  211-213,  216-218;  II,  pp.  53-58,  97-101.         "See  I,  p.  32. 
«See  I,  pp.  141-144,  221-222,  223-224,  236—238.        6See  II,  pp.  10-12. 
•Unless  such  was  his  position  on  the  Brooklyn  Advertizer  or  the  New  York  Evening 
Post,  195-198,  218-219,  220-221.     See  infra,  p.  liv. 

1  See  II,  p.  78.        8See  I,  pp.  195-198,  218-219,  220-221.        9 See  I,  p.  229. 


lxviii  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

from  the  exchanges  news-stories  that  would  keep  before  his 
readers  the  brutality  of  the  slave  trade,  the  inhumanity  of 
capital  punishment,  the  excesses  of  Abolitionism,  the  dangers 
of  intemperance,  or  the  absurdity  of  Fourierism.1  But  occasion- 
ally, as  if  by  way  of  compensation,  he  writes  of  a  picnic2  or 
excursion3  in  a  chatty,  colloquial  vein  no  longer  possible  to  the 
reporters  for  the  metropolitan  press.  In  these  stories,  as  in  his 
editorial  correspondence4  and  his  war  reporting,5  the  perennial 
boyishness  in  him  refuses  to  abase  itself  before  the  dignity  of  the 
editorial  tripod. 

Now  and  then  Whitman  would  attempt  something  a  little 
more  pretentious — a  sort  of  special  article  before  the  day  of  the 
special  article.  He  would  visit  a  prison,6  a  hospital,7  an 
asylum,8  the  Navy  Yard,9  or  a  school10  and  write  a  long  descrip- 
tion of  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  curious-minded  rambler 
about  town  or  that  of  a  public-spirited  guardian  of  the  welfare  of 
the  state.  Once  he  described  a  great  fire  in  New  York,11  with 
a  vividness  that  suggests  his  treatment  of  the  same  theme  in 
verse.12 

b.  Essays  and  Sketches 

More  or  less  similar  to  his  news  articles  are  his  essays  and 
sketches  of  various  types.  The  earliest  of  these  are  the  puerile 
"Sun-Down  Papers"13  which  Whitman  contributed  to  the 
Jamaica  weeklies  in  1 839-1 841.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  five 
missing  numbers  of  this  series  will  yet  be  discovered,  but  the 
seven  anonymous  essays  in  this  volume  throw  most  welcome 
light  on  their  author's  development.  Had  we  a  file  of  the 
Long  Islander  running  back  to  the  period  of  Whitman's  editor- 
ship, or  could  we  identify  the  "piece  or  two"  which  he  declared 
himself  to  have  contributed  to  George  P.  Morris's  Mirror^ 
the  "Sun-Down  Papers"  would  be  slightly  less  important  than 
they  are;  as  it  is,  they  are  practically  the  earliest  of  his  publica- 
tions extant,  and  they  illuminate  a  most  interesting  stage  in 

xSee  I,  p.  229.        2See  I,  pp.  48-51,  164-166.        »See  I,  pp.  118-121. 

«See  I,  pp.  174-181,  247-254.        eSee  II,  pp.  26-41;  cf.  pp.  21-26. 

•See  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  30, 1846;  cf.  also  II,  p.  274. 

iCf.  II,  pp.  288-292. 

8  See  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  3,  9,  July  17,  1846. 

•  Ibidem,  June  27, 1846,  January  30, 1847;  cf.  March  9, 1846. 

"See  infra,  p.  xli,  note  7.        "See  I,  pp.  154-156.        "See  I,  p.  154,  note  I. 

13  See  I,  pp.  32-5 1 .        14  See  "  Complete  Prose,"  p.  1 87. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxix 

his  growth.  The  style  is  very  uneven.  At  times  it  is  slip- 
shod,1 defiant,2  .sentimental,3  or  given  to  moralizing  and  to 
"castigating  the  age/'  like  the  "Salmagundi  Papers"  but  without 
their  grace  and  good  humour.4  But  at  other  times  it  is  rhyth- 
mical though  not  restrained,  and  once,  at  least,  the  young 
author  is  inspired  and  achieves  an  allegorical  "dream,"5  done 
partly  in  the  eighteenth  century  and  partly  in  the  Biblical 
manner,  a  device  which  Whitman  was  to  employ  repeatedly  in 
his  prose6  and  which  may  have  had  some  connection  with  his 
dream  and  trance  passages  of  his  verse.7  Attention  has  already 
been  called  to  the  fact  that  these  early  sketches  give  us  our  first 
intimation  of  Whitman's  life-long  ambitions  for  authorship. 

When  this  dreamy,  kind-hearted,  sensitive  young  man  goes 
to  the  city  in  1841,  his  writing  continues  to  express  the  senti- 
mentality of  the  "Sun-Down  Papers,"  but  it  also  displays  an 
increasing  amount  of,  as  yet,  unharmonized  realism.  The 
combination  is  significant  in  that  it  persists,  in  more  artistic 
form,  in  his  "Leaves  of  Grass"  itself.  In  "The  Tomb-Blos- 
soms"8 the  full  sentimentality  of  that  tearful  age  expends  itself 
over  the  unhappy  lot  of  an  immigrant  widow  mourning  beside  a 
grave.  In  "The  Little  Sleighers"9  the  mood  is  more  natural 
and  healthy,  but  even  here  the  spirited  description  of  a  cold 
morning  on  the  Battery  cannot  end  without  a  most  inappro- 
priate (and,  considering  the  temperature,  a  most  unconvincing) 
fit  of  moralizing  on  the  threadbare  themes  of  youth  and  inno- 
cence. "Tear  Down  and  Build  Over  Again,"10  a  sentimental 
plea  for  the  preservation  of  historic  old  buildings,  reminds  us 
that,  though  Whitman  as  philosopher  and  patriot  was  radical 
enough,  as  poet  he  was  deeply  rooted  in  the  past  and  its  mani- 
fold associations.  "A  Dialogue"11  passionately  arraigns  the 
institution  of  capital  punishment,  particularly  the  justification 
of  it  on  Biblical  grounds.  In  this  argumentative  essay  Whitman 
employs  the  method  of  an  imaginary  dialogue  between  a  con- 
demned murderer  and  society,  somewhat  in  the  Socratic  man- 
ner; and  it  is  not  without  its  effectiveness,12  despite  the  author's 
obvious  prejudice.    In  this  reform,  however,  Whitman  cannot 

1See  I,  pp.  44-46,  46-48.        2 Ibidem.        'See  I,  pp.  35-37.        4See  I,  pp.  32-34. 
8 See  I,  pp.  39-44.        'See  I,  pp.  74-78;  II,  pp.  200-204. 
'See  II,  pp.  70,  71,  74;  "The  Sleepers"  and  "Song  of  Myself,"  passim. 
8See  I,  pp.  60-67.        9See  \,  pp.  90-92.        10See  I,  pp.  92-97.        nSee  I,  pp.  97-103. 
12  Another  good  example  of  Whitman's  impassioned  argument  is  "American  Working- 
men  versus  Slavery,"  I,  pp.  171-174. 


lxx  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

be  credited  with  originality  or  leadership,  for  he  was  but  follow- 
ing such  men  as  Bryant,  Whittier,  Greeley,  Hawthorne,  and 
others  who  were  making  of  it  a  crusade  in  the  1840's.1  Another 
essay  of  the  sentimental-disputatious  type  is  that  entitled 
"Boz  and  Democracy."2  In  it  he  acknowledges  his  obligation 
to  Dickens,  an  indebtedness  which  perhaps  appears  in  the  pica- 
resque elements  of  "Franklin  Evans,"3  though  one  hesitates  to 
lay  "Franklin  Evans"  in  any  measure  at  Dickens's  door.  The 
influence  of  "Boz"  consisted  chiefly  in  his  exhibition  of  the 
humanitarian  opportunities  of  the  "democratic  writer,"  whose 
pages  tend  to  "destroy  the  old  land-marks  which  pride  and 
fashion  have  set  up,  making  impassable  distinctions  between 
the  brethren  of  the  Great  Family."4  Here  we  have,  also,  the 
earliest  expression  of  Whitman's  conception  of  the  "average 
man"  and  of  that  "philosophy  which  teaches  to  pull  down  the 
high  and  bring  up  the  low."5  By  insisting  upon  human  sympa- 
thy in  the  literature  of  a  democracy,  Whitman  was,  of  course, 
holding  a  brief  for  the  future.  Another  essay  looking  in  the 
same  direction  was  the  "Art-Singing  and  Heart-Singing"6  which 
he  wrote  in  1845  ^or  P°e's  Broadway  Journal.  The  naive 
manner  in  which  he  here  writes  on  the  subject  of  America's 
need  for  a  native  style  of  music,  even  while  confessing  his  entire 
ignorance  of  music  as  an  art,  indicates  that  no  lack  of  special 
or  detailed  information  is  to  restrain  the  coming  prophet  from 
delivering  his  message,  addressed  to  the  spirit,  rather  than  to 
the  lower  intelligence,  of  his  people.7 

Still  another  sort  of  essay  is  found  in  the  "Sketches  of  the 
Sidewalks  and  Levees,"8  which  portray  the  motley  types  of 
humanity  that  filled  the  romantic  city  of  New  Orleans  in  1848. 
In  general  plan  they  appear  to  be  imitations  of  the  Addisonian 
"characters,"  but  they  make  no  pretentions  to  grace  or  elegance 
of  expression,  even  degenerating  at  times  into  a  careless  and  silly 

1See  II,  p.  15.  In  August,  1846,  Whitman  ran  serially  a  story  of  circumstantial  evi- 
dence by  Robert  Treat  Irving  ("John  Quod,  Esq."). 

2  See  I,  pp.  67-72. 

3To  be  published  in  the  latter  part  of  the  same  year  (1842). 

♦See  I,  p.  68-69.        *  Ibidem.     See  also  II,  p.  10.        8See  I,  pp.  104-106. 

7The  conclusion — "These  hints  we  throw  out  rather  as  suggestive  of  a  train  of  thought 
to  other  and  more  deliberate  thinkers  than  we" — gives  us,  no  doubt,  the  psychological 
reason  for  his  complacent  declaration,  "Let  others  finish  specimens — I  never  finish 
specimens." 

8  See  I,  pp.  199-218. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxxi 

facetiousness  unworthy  of  detailed  study.1  But  these  sketches 
show  Whitman's  tendency  at  the  time  to  substitute  humorous 
satire  for  his  earlier  preachments,  and  they  reveal  also  his 
powers  of  shrewd,  if  unselective,  observation.  He  is  beginning 
to  study  life  in  a  more  objective  way;  he  is  seeing  men  as 
types.  When  he  discovers  in  himself  a  typical,  though  not  an 
"average,"  man,  subjective  and  objective  treatment  will 
blend  in  one  of  the  most  strangelv  composite  books  of  modern 
times. 

The  essays  written  from  Washington,  descriptive  of  the  army, 
the  city,  the  Capitol,  and  the  Congress,2  are  naturally  the  most 
mature,  picturesque,  and  lifelike  in  our  collection.  One  finds 
an  unusual  delight  in  observing  the  nation's  capital  through  the 
eyes  of  the  nation's  poet,3  and  one  enjoys,  as  he  evidently  en- 
joyed, the  contrast  between  the  functions  of  the  legislator  and 
those  of  what  he  would  have  called  the  litterateur.*  But  in  "The 
Christmas  Garland"  (1874)5  we  have  only  hasty  patchwork, 
suggestive  in  detail  but  all  too  evidently  the  work  of  a  hand 
which  illness  has  robbed  of  its  cunning.  That  Whitman  him- 
self recognized  this  is  shown  by  his  determination  to  select 
only  a  few  passages  for  preservation.  The  last  essay,  "Walt 
Whitman  in  Camden,"6  and  the  curtain  speech,  "The  Old 
Man  Himself,"7  reveal  how  little  the  poet  had  altered  in  his 
fundamental  conception  of  himself  as  he  approached  old  age  and 
death.  The  same  self-confident  spirit  which,  forty  years  before, 
had  announced,  anonymously,  "Yes;  I  would  write  a  book! 
And  who  shall  say  that  it  might  not  be  a  very  pretty  book?"8 
here  looks  back  upon  a  life  guided  by  one  imperious  ambition 
and  concludes,  as  it  were,  "So,  you  see,  I  did  write  a  book; 
and  who  shall  say  that  it  isn't  a  very  pretty  book?"  There  is 
something  of  childlike  naivete  in  such  detachment  as  this  in  so 
subjective  a  poet  as  Whitman — perhaps  it  was  but  a  compensa- 
tory result  of  his  deep  subjectivity.  And  yet  there  is  in  it  just  a 
suggestion  of  secretiveness  where  one  looks  for  candour,  a  sort  of 
harmless  but  private  joke  at  the  reader's  expense.  There  is  in  the 
essay  one  significant  sentence,  which  throws  emphasis  upon  the 
need  for  such  a  study  of  Whitman's  early  newspaper  work  as 

1See  especially  I,  pp.  211-213,  216-218. 

2 See  II,  pp.  26-29,  29-36,  37-41,  42-49>  49~53-        "See  II,  pp.  29-36. 

♦See  II,  pp.  42-53.     6 See  II,  pp.  53-58. 

"See  II,  pp.  58-62.     This  appeared  over  a  pseudonym. 

7  See  II,  pp.  62-63.        *Cf.  p.  37. 


lxxii  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

the  present  volumes  make  possible:  "It  is  perhaps  only  be- 
cause he  was  brought  up  as  a  printer,  and  worked  during  his 
early  years  as  a  newspaper  and  magazine  writer,  that  he  has  put 
his  expression  in  typographical  form,  and  made  a  regular  book 
of  it,  with  lines,  leaves,  and  binding."1  The  distinctly  dotage- 
like self-importance  of  "The  Old  Man  Himself"  causes  the 
reader  to  hesitate  between  regret  that  Whitman's  illness  should 
have  spared  him  to  write  such  pitiable  prose  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  wonder  that  he  should  have  had  courage  to  play  the 
game  to  its  realistic  end,  he  who  had  determined  to  express  in 
writing  a  complete  life,  not  merely  its  best  and  happiest  mo- 
ments. 

c.  Narrative 

In  fiction  and  other  narrative  Whitman  was  rather  less 
successful  than  he  was  in  the  essay  or  sketch  form.  He  could 
make  a  rough  drawing  of  a  type,  but  he  could  not  delineate  a 
character.  Moreover,  the  incubus  of  a  puritan  purpose  marred 
nearly  every  bit  of  fiction  he  ever  wrote.  This  betrayed  him 
into  neglecting  his  plots  and  the  dramatic  qualities  of  his 
story,  even  though  he  did  sometimes  imitate  Poe  to  the 
extent  of  seeking  unity  of  impression.  The  artist  could 
never  emancipate  himself  completely  from  the  preacher  and 
propagandist.  This  is  true  of  "Bervance,"2  a  tale  of  paternal 
aversion  and  enforced  insanity,  as  well  as  of  "The  Last  of  the 
Sacred  Army,"3  a  legend  designed  to  inculcate  a  sentimental 
sort  of  hero-worship.  In  "Franklin  Evans"4  the  moral  not  only 
kills  the  story,  but  it  is  not  even  justified  by  the  argument  of  the 
story,  wherein  a  youth  who  is  an  ingrate,  a  drunkard,  a  criminal, 
an  unfaithful  spouse,  and  all  but  a  murderer  succeeds  in  shuffling 
off  the  coil  of  his  intemperance  through  no  particular  effort  of 
his  own,  in  time  to  inherit  a  fortune  he  in  no  wise  deserves.  The 
same  insistent  didacticism  lays  its  blight  upon  each  part  of  the 
narrative — even  upon  episodes  or  imbedded  tales  which,  like 
"The  Death  of  Wind-Foot," 5  had  enough  interest  in  themselves 
to  tempt  Whitman  to  republish  them,6  and  which,  but  for  the 
young  author's  riding  the  Washingtonian  crusade  too  hard, 
might  have  afforded  momentary  relief  from  the  unrelenting 
melodrama  of  the  novelette.     Whitman  professed  to  believe 

1  See  II,  p.  6a.   « See  I,  pp.  52-60.   » See  I,  pp.  72-78. 

«See  II,  pp.  103-221.    BSee  pp.  1 12-120.    6,See  II,  pp.  11 1,  note  2, 181,  note  I. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxxiii 

that  in  this  blending  of  morality  with  art,  preachments  with 
fiction,  he  was  discovering  a  new  field  for  the  novel!  Or  per- 
haps he  meant  that  he  was  the  first  fictionist  to  employ  the 
novel  in  this  particular  propaganda.  In  reality  what  he  was 
doing  was  to  serve  a  low  grade  of  diluted  fiction  to  a  provincial 
people  unaccustomed  as  yet  to  take  it  straight.  Whitman 
himself  was  too  honest  a  writer,  however,  not  to  outgrow  such  a 
conception  of  art,1  and  he  lived  to  write  satirically  of  melo- 
drama like  this.2  Nevertheless  his  capacious  philosophy 
refused  to  condemn  it  entirely,  finding  a  function  for  it  as  the 
strong  diet  of  the  uneducated  masses.3  .  .  .  Despite  its 
autobiographical  interest,  "The  Shadow  and  the  Light  of  a 
Young  Man's  Soul"4  is  difficult  reading,  so  full  is  it  of  puerile 
moralizing,  while  "A  Legend  of  Life  and  Love,"5  a  plea  for  the 
wholehearted  acceptance  of  life  notwithstanding  its  manifold 
risks,  is  without  a  single  artistic  touch  to  ameliorate  its  plati- 
tudes. Even  stories  so  deliberately  fanciful  as  "The  Angel 
of  Tears"6  and  "Eris;  A  Spirit  Record,"7  for  any  intrinsic 
value,  deserved  to  die  in  the  age  of  sighs  that  gave  them  birth. 

In  simple  narratives  without  such  specific  moral  intent 
Whitman  makes  a  closer  approach  to  readable  prose.  "An 
Incident  on  Long  Island  Forty  Years  Ago,"8  "A  Fact  Romance 
of  Long  Island,"9  "Excerpts  from  a  Traveller's  Note  Book,"10 
the  second  "Letter  from  Paumanok,"11  and  certain  passages  in 
the  "Brooklyniana"  are  homely  but  interesting  stories,  told 
with  zest  and  a  degree  of  skill.  "A  Night  at  the  Terpsichore 
Ball"12  is  marred  by  cheap  attempts  at  humour,  but  it  has  a 
genuine,  if  crude,  feeling  for  definiteness  of  effect. 

It  would   be   inaccurate    to   describe    the   " Brooklyniana* ' 

1Whitman  is  reported  by  Traubel  as  having  said  to  him,  in  1888:  "Parke  Godwin  and 
another  somebody  (who  was  it?)  came  to  see  me  about  writing  it.  Their  offer  of  cash 
payment  was  so  tempting  (seventy-five  dollars  down  and  fifty  more  when  the  book  had 
an  unexpectedly  large  sale) — I  was  so  hard  up  at  the  time — that  I  set  to  work  at  once 
ardently  on  it  (with  the  help  of  a  bottle  of  port  or  what  not).  In  three  days  of  constant 
work  I  finished  the  book.  Finished  the  book?  Finished  myself.  It  was  damned  rot — 
rot  of  the  worst  sort — not  insincere,  perhaps,  but  rot,  nevertheless:  it  was  not  the  busi- 
ness for  me  to  be  up  to.  I  stopped  right  there:  I  never  cut  a  chip  of  that  kind  of  timber 
again."  ("With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  I,  p.  93.)  The  fact  remains,  however, 
that  Whitman  reprinted  the  story  four  years  later  in  the  Eagle,  with  editorial  endorse- 
ment. There  is  also  some  evidence  that  Whitman  was  the  "Brooklynite"  who  wrote 
a  tragic  Indian  story  dealing  with  summary  punishment,  called  "The  Half-Breed," 
for  the  Eagle,  beginning  with  June  I,  1846. 

JSeeI,  pp.  122,  140;  II,  pp.  19-21.        3See  II,  p.  20.        4See  I,  pp.  229-234. 

5SeeI,  pp.  78-83.        «SeeI,  pp.  83-86.        7 See  I,  pp.  86-89.        8See  I,  pp.  149-151. 

•See  I,  pp.  146-147.        10See  I,  pp.  1 81-190.        uSee  pp.  250-254. 

"See  I,  pp.  225-229. 


lxxiv  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

as  a  serial  history  of  Brooklyn.  It  was  full  of  "personal 
chronicles  and  gossip"  concerning  matters  of  local  interest 
written  in  an  easy,  chatty  style;  but  after  all  it  was  news-writ- 
ing and  not  history.  As  has  been  intimated,  Whitman  had  been 
collecting  his  material  for  years,1  but  his  thinking  was  com- 
prehensive rather  than  systematic  or  thorough,  he  wrote  with- 
out adequate  plan,  his  information  was  drawn  from  various 
but  limited  sources,  and  his  style  was  that  of  the  journalist 
whose  ears  ring  with  the  cries  for  more  "copy."  Hence  he  re- 
peats, rambles,  pads  his  narrative  with  statistics2  and  with 
quotations  which  (particularly  the  very  lengthy  one  from  Mary 
L.  Booth's  "History  of  New  York")3  emphasize  both  the  limita- 
tions to  his  knowledge  of  his  field  and  the  weaknesses  of  his 
style.  The  methods  of  securing  "suggestion,  atmosphere, 
reminder,  the  native  and  common  spirit  of  all"4  which  he  em- 
ployed more  or  less  successfully  in  his  verse  would  hardly 
serve  in  prose  history.  This  relative  impotency  in  prose 
doubtless  had  exerted  a  strong,  even  if  unconscious,  influence  in 
causing  him  to  adopt  prose-verse  as  his  main  vehicle  of  ex- 
pression; for,  though  he  had  begun  to  write  verses  by  his 
twentieth  year,  he  never  looked  upon  himself  as  a  born  poet  in 
the  sense  that  Poe  and  Longfellow  and  Lowell  regarded  them- 
selves, and,  as  we  have  seen,  he  once  said  the  fact  that  he  had 
expressed  his  message  in  print  of  any  sort  was  due  to  an  acci- 
dent of  training.5  But  the  "  Brooklyniana"  articles  are  far  from 
worthless,  notwithstanding  their  deficiencies  as  conventional  his- 
tory. They  are  largely  memoirs,  given  at  first  and  at  second 
hand,  and  pretend  to  be  little  more.  As  such  they  give  compe- 
tent testimony  on  many  points  of  local  history;  they  breathe  the 
spirit  of  the  city  in  which  Whitman  passed  his  youth,  and  reveal 
what  that  city  meant  to  the  maturing  man;  they  supply  the 
earliest  account  we  have  of  certain  events  in  his  life,  and  do  this 
with  a  freedom  possible  only  to  the  anonymous  writer;  and, 
in  many  passages,  they  possess  an  antiquarian  interest  which, 
like  the  pleasantness  of  good  wine,  will  increase  with  age. 

d.     Speeches 

The  present  collection  contains  the  text  of  one  of  Whitman's 
speeches  and   the  peroration  of  another.     With  such  scanty 

1See  infra,  p.  Ivii,  and  I,  234,  note;  II,  p.  223,  note.      2See  II,  pp.  250-251,  291-292. 
8See  II,  pp.  301-306.  4See  II,  p.  63.        6See  II,  p.  62. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxxv 

evidence  one  cannot  draw  dogmatic  conclusions  as  to  his 
ability  as  a  public*  speaker.  Much  of  his  early  prose  is  de- 
clamatory, however,  some  of  it  to  such  a  degree  as  to  create  a 
presumption  that  it  was  composed  aloud  even  if  it  were  not  at 
some  time  intended  for  a  speech.1  If  we  may  judge  from  the 
Art  Union  address,  Whitman  did  not  rely  on  impromptu  in- 
spiration or  any  native  ability  to  "think  on  his  feet"  or  even  to 
adapt  his  thinking  to  the  conditions  of  delivery.  His  lectures 
would  have  been  orations  rather,  or  perhaps  public  readings 
of  essays.2 

The  speech  in  the  Park3  indicates  the  young  orator's  personal 
independence,  his  devotion  to  the  cause  of  his  party,  his  interest 
in  ideal  issues,  and  his  faith  in  the  outcome  of  those  issues.  His 
style  is  amateurish,  his  employment  of  periods  and  vision 
sophomoric.  His  appeal  is  not  to  self-interest,  to  shrewd 
common  sense,  but  to  that  American  idealism  concerning  which 
he  was  to  express  his  doubts  in  the  Art  Union  address4  and 
of  which  his  "Leaves  of  Grass"  was  to  be  perhaps  our  best 
exponent. 

In  the  "Art  and  Artists"  speech  he  has  a  more  promising 
theme — too  broad,  no  doubt,  but  handled  so  as  to  produce  a 
certain  unity  of  impression.  In  this  address  he  shows  a  com- 
mand of  a  variety  of  moods,  passing  from  satire  to  anecdotes, 
from  burlesque  to  eloquent  and  inspiring  appeals  to  heroic 
action.  Perhaps  the  most  noteworthy  fact  about  the  address 
is  its  natural  combination  of  prose  with  a  specimen  of  the  free 
verse  on  which  he  was  then  experimenting  and  which  he  had 
already  begun  to  publish.  Some  devices,  such  as  allitera- 
tion, the  parallel  construction,  and  aphorisms,  are  common  to 
both.  But  the  careful  reader  will  observe  that  there  is  a 
rhythm  peculiar  to  the  verse;  the  difference  is  not  an  accident  of 
printing.  And  he  will  also  observe  that  even  in  quoting  from 
Bryant's  blank  verse  Whitman  manages  to  extort  a  movement 
of  syllables  not  unlike  his  own.  There  is  a  close  kinship  be- 
tween Whitman's  prose  intended  for  oral  delivery  and  his  free 

1See,  e.  g.,  II,  pp.  102-103,  172-174,  263-264. 

2 1  think  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  text  of  this  Art  Union  address  was  furnished 
the  Advertizer  by  Whitman  himself.  It  is  also  known  that  when,  in  the  later  1850's, 
Whitman  contemplated  a  lecture  tour,  he  intended  to  sell  the  lectures  in  pamphlet  form 
for  a  nominal  price. 

'See  I,  p.  51. 

4See  I,  pp.  241-247. 


lxxvi  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

verse;  but,  as  will  presently  be  shown,  the  one  is  not  the  real 
origin  of  the  other  as  Professor  Carpenter  surmised.1 

e.  Memorial 

The  tone  of  Whitman's  memorial  to  the  Mayor  and  the  City 
Council2  is  dignified  and  public-spirited;  but  it  savours  too  much 
of  his  contempt  for  the  whole  race  of  office-holders3  and  is  too 
overtly  a  sermon  to  them  in  public  to  have  had  any  effect  in 
constructive  legislation.4  His  democratic  jealousy  of  govern- 
ment as  a  rival  to  individual  liberty  in  the  realm  of  personal 
morals  (and,  pari  passu,  of  th#  general  as  opposed  to  the  local 
government)  had  root,  no  doubt,  in  his  own  independent 
nature  and  in  his  early  political  training;  but  it  may  have  been 
intensified  by  reading  Emerson  and  by  his  brief  residence  in  the 
South.  Whitman  never  allowed  his  abstract  attitude  of 
sympathy  for  the  slave  to  drive  him  into  a  denial  of  the  minority 
rights  of  the  several  states,5  though  he  could  hardly  go  all 
the  way  with  Calhoun.6  In  the  special  issue  involved  in  the 
memorial  Whitman,  in  seeking  to  preserve  the  Sabbath  for  man 
rather  than  man  for  the  Sabbath,  took  a  position  which  the 
history  of  municipal  government  in  America  as  increasingly 
strengthened. 

f.  Editorials 

More  important  than  any  or  all  of  the  forms  of  prose  com- 
position we  have  noted  in  shaping  Whitman's  prose  style,  were 
his  newspaper  editorials,  both  because  for  twenty  years  they 
were  his  most  common  form  of  communication  with  his  public 
and  also  because  they  afforded  him  his  best  opportunity  to  ad- 
dress that  public  in  his  personal,  hortatory,  or  didactic  manner. 
He  conceived  of  his  readers  as  his  personal,  if  anonymous,  friends, 
in  whose  physical,  intellectual,  aesthetic,  and  moral  education 

*In  his  "Walt  Whitman,"  English  Men  of  Letters  Series,  1909,  pp.  43-44« 

2  See  I,  pp.  259-264. 

*Cf.  "Complete  Prose,"  pp.  204,  217,  252. 

«See  I,  p.  259,  note.        6See  I,  pp.  156,  162;  II,  pp.  10,  57. 

•See  I,  p.  162.    Cf.  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  69.     In  1846,  however,  Whitman  admired 
Calhoun  very  much.    On  May  14  of  that  year  he  said  editorially  in  the  Eagle:    "We 
like  a  bold  honest  morally  heroic  man!     We  therefore  like  John  C.  Calhoun     *     *     * 
We  believe  that  a  higher  souled  patriot  never  trod  on  American  soil*    *    *."     (See 
"The  Gathering  of  the  Forces, "  II,  pp.  191 -192.) 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxxvii 

he  was  more  concerned  than  he  was  in  their  financial  support.1 
Of  course  the  editor  of  a  party  organ  in  those  days  was  re- 
quired to  furnish  a  considerable  amount  of  "grave  political  dis- 
quisition," particularly  about  election  time;  but  Whitman 
frankly  states  that  for  this  more  "dignified"  part  of  his  editorial 
labours  he  has  little  relish.2  Whatever  his  accomplishments  as  an 
editor,  he  had  definite  ideals  for  the  editorial  function.3  The 
true  editor,  he  says,  must  possess  a  free  and  untrammeled  spirit, 
unbiased  by  fear  or  convention.  His  mission  is  to  reform 
and  to  enlighten,  to  inspire  and  to  guide.  He  must  not  set  too 
high  a  value  upon  patience,  poise,  deliberation.  In  shaping 
his  style  he  must  seek  polish  and  elegance  less  than  earnestness, 
spontaneity,  terseness — the  vital  fluidity  of  impromptu  oratory. 
So  Whitman  thought  in  1846;  but  some  years  later,  after  the 
appearance  of  the  second  edition  of  his  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  and 
when  he  had  learned  to  place  a  proper  emphasis  upon  poise 
as  well  as  upon  youthful  fervour,  upon  literary  style  as  well  as 
upon  mere  sincerity  of  purpose,  he  gratefully  acknowledged 
the  leadership  of  Bryant  in  improving  the  tone  of  journalistic 
prose.4  At  last  he  had  come  to  perceive  the  relation  between 
style  and  morals,  and  this  perception  had  helped  to  harmonize 
in  him  the  preacher  and  the  artist.  But  in  1846  Whitman  re- 
garded content  more  than  form.  He  thought  that  the  editor 
should  have  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  general  information,  par- 
ticularly concerning  his  own  country.5  This  editorial  necessity 
must  not  be  underrated  as  an  influence  not  only  in  Whitman's 
painstaking,  if  rather  unsystematic,  self-education,  but  also 
in  his  unusually  wide  familiarity  with  the  life  of  his  fellow  men. 
Thus  Whitman's  editorials  naturally  covered  a  wide  range  of 
topics;  but  there  were  certain  subjects  that  recurred  so  fre- 
quently in  his  leaders  and  elsewhere  as  to  indicate  a  predilec- 
tion for  them.  One  of  these  was  education,  concerning  which 
he  had  three  fixed  opinions:  (a)  education  should  be  more 
generously  supported  and  more  carefully  supervised,6  (b) 
moral  suasion  and  inspirational  methods  should  supplant  the 
time-honoured  flogging  system,7  as  they  had  done  in  his  own 
school-room  and  in  those  of  Transcendental  teachers  like  Alcott 

JSee  I,  pp.  114-117.        «SeeI,  p.  115.        *See  I,  pp.  114-117. 

«See  I,  p.  115,  note.        *See  I,  p.  115. 

6See  II,  pp.  13-15;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  April  16.  184.6;  "The  Gathering  of  the 
Forces,"  I,pp.  121-145,  passim. 

'See  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  12,  September  3,  1846;  also  "The  Gathering  of  the 
Forces,"  I,  pp.  144-145" 


lxxviii  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

and  Thoreau,  and  (c)  the  curriculum  should  not  be  based  upon 
the  custom  or  authority  of  the  past  alone,  but  should  be  adapted 
to  the  largest  needs  of  the  future  citizen  of  a  democracy.1  His 
hatred  for  sham  in  education  was  matched  by  his  disgust  at  sham 
everywhere.2  Another  subject  of  frequent  recurrence  was 
America's  tendency  to  ape  the  Old  World  in  music,3  art,4 
literature,5  manners6,  and  the  drama7.  Another  was  the  dangers 
of  materialism,  whether  in  the  form  of  African  slavery8  or  in  the 
more  alluring  guise  of  ordinary  money-making.9  Other  fa- 
vourite themes  were:  the  abolition  of  capital  punishment,10  the 
evils  of  intemperance,11  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate  and  the 
criminal,12  a  living  wage  for  working  women,13  the  ennobling 
influence  of  the  gentler  sex,14  the  beauty  and  educative  function 
of  nature,15  the  greatness  and  the  origin  and  destiny  of  Am- 
erica,16 the  free  spirit  of  the  West,17  the  necessity  of  the  Union,18 
the  need  of  personal  cleanliness  and  of  aesthetic  surroundings,19 
the  opportunities  for  civic  improvement,20  the  absurdities  of 
fashion,21  the  mission  of  democracy,22  and  the  blessing  of  good 
books.23 

g.  Reviews  and  Criticism 

The  comprehensive  duties  of  an  editor,  as  understood  by 
Whitman,  brought  him  into  touch  not  only  with  the  best  plays, 
operas,  concerts,  lectures,  and  sermons  that  the  two  cities 
afforded,  but  also  with  the  publications  of  the  New  York  press 

1See  I,  pp.  144-146,  220-221. 

2See  I,  pp.  126,  193-195,  199-202,  257;  II,  pp.  68-69,  83,  84,  90,  134. 

*See  I,  pp.  104-106.        «See  I,  pp.  185-186,  236-238.        i>See  I,  pp.  121-123. 

8  See  I,  pp.  104—106.        7See  I,  pp.  152-154,  158. 

"See  I,  pp.  106-108,  160-162;  171-174;  II,  pp.  8-10. 

•  See  I,  pp.  37-39,  123-125,  236-237.        10See  I,  pp.  97-103,  108-110;  II,  pp.  15-16. 

"See  I,  pp.  149,  223;  II,  pp,  6,  11-12,  103-221. 

"See  I,  pp.  60-67,  83-86,  138-139,  154-156,  212-213,  223,  232-234;  II,  pp.  10-13. 

"See  I,  p.  137;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  August  19,  1846;  also  "The  Gathering  of  the 
Forces,"  I,  pp.  148-151,  157-158. 

"See  I,  pp.  65-66,  138-139,  216—217;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  March  17, 1846. 

"Seel,  pp.  113-114,  164-166,  181-186,  248-249,  255-256. 

16 See  I,  pp.  153,  156,  158,  171— 174;  and  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  I,  pp.  229- 
234,  235-239. 

"See  I,  pp.  151-152,  185.        "See  I,  p.  156;  II,  pp.  30-31,  57. 

"See  I,  pp.  190,  208-209,  249,  254-255;  II,  pp.  90,  127;  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  March 
11,  23,  24,  April  15,  June  30,  1846;  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  201-207. 

^See  I,  pp.  141-142,  169,  190,  239-241,  259-264. 

21  See  I,  pp.  162-163,  208-210,  245-246,  249. 

22See  I,  pp.  159-160,  160-162,  166-168. 

"See  I,  pp.  125-126,  126-137,  188-189;  cf-  n,  pp.  22,  23,  26-41,  76. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxxix 

and  the  periodicals  of  the  country.  Probably  his  most  en- 
joyable work  was  to  attend  the  play  or  opera  and  to  criticize 
the  production  in  his  paper.  Certainly  he  is  seldom  more 
eloquent  or  enthusiastic  than  when  so  engaged.1  His  critical 
standards  were  his  own,  formulated  in  a  long  and  regular  at- 
tendance at  the  opera  and  theatre.2  Mere  technique  never  sat- 
isfied him;3  the  artist  must  touch  his  deeper  feelings,  and  when 
he  did  Whitman  was  the  most  responsive  man  in  the  audience.4 

If  space  permitted,  a  detailed  study  should  be  made  of 
Whitman's  book  criticisms  in  his  formative  years.  They  cor- 
respond more  nearly  than  anything  else  to  the  reports,  criti- 
ques, and  examination  papers  whereby  we  try  to  estimate  the 
intellectual  progress  of  college  students.  They  furnish  hints,  at 
least,  as  to  the  influence  of  various  authors  on  his  growing  mind, 
and  are  proof  enough  that  his  effort  to  educate  himself  was 
comprehensive,  intelligent,  and  serious.  I  have  brought  to- 
gether (I,  pp.  126-137)  Whitman's  critical  opinions  on  some 
thirty-five  American  and  European  authors,  and  have  listed 
the  titles  of  a  hundred  other  books  reviewed  or  "noticed" 
in  the  Eagle.  It  is  unnecessary  here  to  summarize  these 
opinions,  but  a  few  conclusions  may  be  drawn  from  them. 
There  can  no  longer  be  any  question  as  to  whether  Whitman 
knew  Emerson's  writings  before  1855.5  As  p°ets  Longfellow6 
and  Bryant7  apparently  had  more  influence  on  him,  the  one 
because  of  his  sentiment  and  the  other  because  of  his  dignified 
poems  on  nature  and  freedom.  Similarities  to  "Sartor  Resartus" 
have  been  pointed  out  in  the  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  but  now  we 
know  that  Carlyle  was  making  a  gradual  but  strong  impression 
on  Whitman's  mind  as  early  as  1 846. 8  Perhaps  Goethe's  "Auto- 
biography" gave  him  his  most  definite  hint  for  the  plan  of  his 
own  volume.9  Martin  Tupper  has  been  mentioned  by  one  biog- 
rapher as  a  possible  "influence"  on  Whitman;  that  influence 
was,  I  think,  a  limited  one,  but  now  we  know  that  at  least  Whit-' 
man  had  read  Tupper  with  admiration.10  Indeed  he  read  all 
kinds  of  books,  but  seems  to  have  preferred  the  profounder 
sort.  To  each,  whether  written  on  this  or  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Atlantic,  he  applies  the  standard  of  modern  democracy.11 
One  regrets  that  Whitman  attempted  so  many  things  that  his 

»See  especially  I,  pp.  143-144,  255-259.         2 See  I,  p.  257.         z Ibidem. 
«See  I,  pp.  143-144,  256-259.         6See  I,  p.  132;  cf.  p.  243,  note. 
•See  I,  pp.  133-134.         7See  I,  pp.  128-129.         ?See  I,  pp.  129-130. 
9See  I,  pp.  132,  139-141.         10See  I,  p.  136,    -~ 
"See  I,  pp.  121-123,  133-134,  163-164, 


lxxx  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

book  reviews  are  for  the  most  part  hastily  written  or  incomplete; 
for  they  reveal  the  same  shrewd  judgment  and  quick  intuition 
that  in  later  life  rendered  his  discussion  of  literature  so  pleas- 
antly stimulating. 


8.  Summary  of  Journalistic  Prose 

It  happens  that  all  this  journalistic  work,  though  it  was 
Whitman's  method  of  earning  his  daily  bread,  was  also  his  only 
apprenticeship  in  letters.  Are  there,  then,  in  this  early 
magazine  and  newspaper  writing  any  hints  of  the  unfolding  of 
his  own  artistic  spirit  and  of  the  plan  of  the  "Leaves?"  In  a 
general  way  we  can  trace  the  development  of  that  spirit  in  him 
as,  first,  he  dreams  of  writing  a  great  book  for  the  good  of  man- 
kind, the  nature  of  the  book  being  as  hazy  as  the  dream  in  which 
it  was  born;  second,  as  he  grows  temporarily  but  genuinely 
enthusiastic  over  his  discovery  of  what  he  mistakenly  believes 
to  be  a  new  field  for  the  novel;  third,  as  he  strives  to  elevate  the 
newspaper  to  a  plane  on  which  a  great  man  might  put  forth 
his  full  greatness  for  the  good  of  his  country;  and  finally,  as 
he  stumbles  upon  the  unpredictable  poetic  role  for  which  he 
was  foreordained.  And  what  were  the  steps  leading  blindly  but 
inevitably  to  that  role?  When  he  urged  upon  American  con- 
cert singers  the  necessity  of  being  natural,  unaffected  Ameri- 
cans instead  of  imitating  the  here  exogenous  graces  of  courtly 
Europeans,  he  was  unconsciously  announcing  what  was  to  be  a 
fundamental  differentium  between  his  own  art  and  that, 
say,  of  Spenser  and  Shakespeare.  When  he  called  the  attention 
of  American  painters  to  the  wealth  of  genre  studies  afforded 
by  their  own  country,1  he  was  in  reality  awakening  the  word- 
painter  in  himself,  who  was  one  day  to  write  poems  worthy  to  be 
likened  to  the  canvases  of  Millet.  When  he  demanded  vision, 
originality,  and  reformatory  fervour  of  the  editor,  he  was  shaping 
his  composite  ideal  of  that  poet-prophet  who  was  within  a  few 
months  to  hear  the  voice  of  the  Future,  bidding  him  lead  his 
people  to  the  promised  land  of  a  vital,  if  somewhat  sentimental, 
democracy.  Dreaming  of  the  coming  of  an  artist  great  enough 
to  create  a  true,  indigenous  American  drama,2  he  expressed  a 
longing  which,  like  that  of  Ernest  in  "The  Great  Stone  Face," 
was  to  be  satisfied  in  a  doubly  unexpected  manner.     It  is  worth 

»C/.  I,  pp.  185-186.        2See  I,  pp.  152-154. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxxxi 

noting  that  even  in  his  dreams  of  what  the  American  stage 
might  be,  he  emphasized  its  educative  function  rather  than  its 
aesthetic:  "The  drama  of  this  country  can  be  the  mouthpiece  of 
freedom,  refinement,  liberal  philosophy,  beautiful  love  for  all  our 
brethren,  polished  manners  and  good  taste."1  And  finally  when, 
in  a  book  review,  he. shouted  "Eureka"  over  the  discovery,  in 
Goethe's  "Autobiography,"  of  a  man's  life-story  full  and  intimate 
and  true  enough  to  satisfy  his  exorbitant  longings,2  his  own 
unborn  volume  stirred  with  excitement  within  him.  .  .  . 
Yet  the  closest  connection  between  Whitman's  early  prose  and 
his  characteristic  verse  is  to  be  found  in  the  manuscript  note- 
books, to  which  I  shall  presently  advert. 

On  the  whole,  one  is  disposed  to  pronounce  Whitman's 
connection  with  newspapers  and  magazines  beneficial  to  the 
poet.  It  brought  him  into  contact  with  hasty  and  mediocre 
writers,  to  be  sure,  and  it  forced  upon  him  a  habit  of  writing 
without  revision  that  could  but  be  detrimental  to  his  prose  style. 
Moreover,  a  distinctly  literary  manner  was  hardly  in  place  in  the 
newspaper  columns  of  his  day.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it 
developed  in  him  a  deep  sense  of  the  responsibility  of  the  writer; 
it  brought  to  him  the  best  books  issuing  from  the  press,  books 
which  he  might  not  otherwise  have  had  the  opportunity  or  the 
incentive  to  read;  it  gave  him  the  entree  to  the  art  of  the 
metropolis;  and  it  afforded  him  a  vantage  point  from  which 
he  could  learn  to  look  at  the  growing  young  country  as  a  whole. 
The  breadth  of  view,  the  tolerance  of  opinion,  the  interest 
in  the  eternal  present  with  its  consequent  sense  of  progress, 
and  the  quick  judgment  of  values  which  make  his  "Leaves  of 
Grass"  so  nearly  what  it  attempted  to  be — a  picture  of  the 
average  man  in  the  midst  of  the  maelstrom  America  of  the 
nineteenth  century — could  hardly  have  been  obtained  in  any 
other  way.  Certainly  the  colleges  of  his  time,  whatever  they 
might  have  done  in  "correcting"  or  in  restraining  his  style, 
would  never  have  developed  in  him  that  ability  to  derive  an 
Antaean  power  from  his  contact  with  humanity  which  it  was, 
after  all,  that  made  him  a  great  writer.  In  this  respect  the 
American  newspaper  office  may  be  said  to  have  done  for 
Whitman  very  much  what  it  did  for  Mark  Twain,  if  we  make 
allowance  for  the  difference  between  the  humour  and  the  romance 
of  the  one  and  the  sentiment  and  idealism  of  the  other. 

lSee  I,  p.  152.        a  See  I,  pp.  139-141. 


lxxxii  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 


9.  Manuscript  Note  Books 

About  1847,  as  we  have  seen,  Whitman  began  the  composi- 
tion which  was  to  grow,  through  seven  or  eight  years,  into  the 
First  Edition  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass."  Now,  that  edition  con- 
tains approximately  one  fourth  as  much  prose  as  it  does  verse — 
oracular,  incoherent,  picturesque  prose  so  closely  akin  to  the 
verse  it  was  designed  to  introduce  to  the  reading  public  that 
much  of  it  could  later  be  incorporated  in  the  poem  "By  Blue 
Ontario's  Shore."  This  fact  supplies  a  hint  as  to  the  origin  of 
the  whole  book,  a  hint  which  is  confirmed  by  a  study  of  the 
manuscript  note  books  printed  in  the  second  volume  of  the  pres- 
ent work. 

The  first  of  these  begins  with  a  sense  of  suppressed,  half- 
articulate  power,  in  the  language  of  a  novel  ecstasy.  Some 
mystical  experience,  some  great  if  not  sudden  access  of  in- 
tellectual power,  some  enlargement  and  clarifying  of  vision, 
some  selfless  throb  of  cosmic  sympathy,  has  come  to  Walt 
Whitman.  At  first  he  can  only  ejaculate  his  wonder,  and  pray 
for  the  advent  of  a  perfect  man  who  will  be  worthy  to  com- 
municate to  the  world  this  new  vision  of  humanity.1  Then, 
like  the  prophet  Isaiah,  whose  great  book  he  is  wont  to  carry 
in  his  pocket  to  Coney  Island,  he  suddenly  realizes  that  a 
vision  is  itself  a  commission;  and  from  this  moment  he  dedicates 
himself  to  a  life  task  as  audacious  as  it  seems  divine.2  At  last 
he  has  the  courage  and  feels  the  mystic  authority  to  assume  the 
role  that  he  has,  somewhat  indefinitely,  been  calling  upon  others 
to  assume.  The  burden  of  his  message,  as  in  his  dream  of 
seven  years  before,  is  the  future  good  of  man,  but  as  yet  he  can 
only  hint  it  in  imperfect  prose,  the  only  language  he  has  learned 
in  the  newspaper  offices.  He  announces  the  tokens  of  the  true 
American  character — health,3  liberty,4  independence,5  haughty 
pride,6  self-reliance,7  prudence,8  tolerance,9  equality;10  he 
marvels  at  that  miracle  of  the  mystic's  imagination  by  which 
the  soul  is  enabled  to  dissolve  and  to  comprehend  the  solid  things 
of  the  earth;11  he  is  drunk  with  the  limitless  dilation  of  the  liber- 
ated spirit;12  he  divines  the  dual  but  harmonious  mystery  which 
others  know  only  as  mind  and  matter,  soul  and  body,  and  thus 

»See  II,  p.  68.        2See  II,  p.  69.        »See  II,  pp.  64,  65.        « Ibidem. 

5See  II,  pp.  63,  64.        «See  II,  pp.  63-64.        7See  II,  p.  67.        »See  II,  p.  63. 

•See  p.  64.        10See  II,  pp.  63,  64,  65.        "See  II,  pp.  64-66.        12See  II,  p.  66.  ' 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxxxiii 

he  arrives  at  Emerson's  conception  of  an  evil  which  is  merely 
privative;1  he  discovers  that  true  nobility  has  no  relation  to 
wealth  or  rank,  but  is  to  be  sought  even  among  "drivers  and 
boatmen  or  men  that  catch  fish  or  work  in  the  field";2  he  feels 
his  kinship  with  all  flesh.3  Stated  in  unemotional  prose,  as  I 
have  stated  them,  these  ideas  seem  platitudinous  indeed;  but 
the  genius  of  the  mystic  is  that  he  can  make  a  platitude  throb 
with  life,  and  even  in  Whitman's  prose  there  is  an  indefinable 
promise  of  the  inspiration  which  was  in  time  to  set  the  seal  of 
genius  upon  the  book  here  struggling  to  its  birth.  Presently  he 
comes  to  realize  that  he  must  have  a  new  language,  capable 
of  manifold  suggestion,  appropriate  for  multiform  effects, 
plastic  as  his  own  personality.  The  poet  alone  can  master 
such  a  language,4  and  so,  relying  for  guidance  upon  the  Spirit 
which  has  bidden  him  write,  he  sets  about  the  stupendous  task 
of  creating  a  new  sort  of  poetry  for  America.  It  is  hardly  sur- 
prising that  the  form  of  the  new  poetry  should  have  borne  a 
striking  resemblance  to  Hebraic  verse,  particularly  when  one 
remembers  how  familiar  Whitman  was  with  the  Scriptures.5 
But  it  is  important  to  observe  that  his  book  is,  originally,  not  a 
song  singing  itself,  but  the  utterance  of  mystical  inspiration, 
often  first  expressed  in  prose  and  later  rendered  into  long  and 
rhythmical  lines.  First  in  his  mind  came  the  message  or 
suggestion,  then  the  "making  it  more  rhythmical."  This  is 
shown  by  the  fact  that  Whitman  passes  almost  indifferently 
from  prose  to  verse,  or  from  verse  to  prose/ without  noticeable 
change  of  mood.  It  is  further  shown  by  comparing  these  note- 
book specimens  with  the  First  Edition  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass" 
and  noting  the  great  increase  of  terseness  and  rhythm  in  the 
latter.  There,  as  an  artist,  he  has  begun  to  think  more  of 
/wpression;  whereas  here,  as  a  seer,  he  is  chiefly  engrossed 
in  the  difficult  task  of  expression. 

It  is  reassuring  to  the  lay  mind  to  know  that  all  the  beauty 
and  the  invigorating  freshness  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  were  thus 
fully  earned  by  the  sweat  of  the  poet's  brow,  and  that  the 
divine  fire  did  not  descend  upon  the  altar  of  a  lazy  man  who  had 
accumulated  no  goods  for  the  sacrifice.  Here  we  have  the  rare 
privilege  of  attending  what  its  author  would  have  called  the 
accouchement  of  the  greatest  single  volume  America  has  yet 

1Sce  II,  pp.  65,  68.        'See  II,  p.  69.        »See  II,  pp.  66-69.        *See  H,  p.  65. 
6See  I,  p.  127,  and  also  the  list  of  quotations  from  the  Bible  given  in  the  Subject 
Index. 


lxxxiv  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

produced.     The  reader  is  not  often  permitted  to  see  a  "bible  of 
democracy,"  or  a  bible  of  any  sort,  in  the  making. 

II.  WHITMAN'S  VERSE 

Our  study  of  Whitman's  prose  led  us  to  its  culmination  in  his 
free  verse.  But  though  Whitman  wrote  comparatively  little 
verse  previous  to  1847,  or  before  1855  for  that  matter,  his  new 
departure  in  literary  form  resulted  also  from  a  gradual  evolu- 
tion of  his  poetry.1  That  when  these  two  lines  of  development 
met  they  should  have  produced  a  form  of  expression  that  broke 
down  the  distinction  between  prose  and  poetry  as  commonly 
understood,  was  perhaps  inevitable.  A  rapid  review  of  these 
youthful  compositions  in  verse  will  make  this  evolution  clear. 

"Our  Future  Lot"2  reveals  how  seriously  the  nineteen- 
year-old  poet  was  taking  the  great  mysteries  of  human  life 
and  death.  The  dignity  of  the  theme  lends  a  kind  of  sad 
simplicity  to  the  treatment,  finally  relieving  it  of  the  mor- 
bid subjectivity  with  which  it  opens.  Whitman  naturally  be- 
gins his  versifying  with  a  simple  ballad  stanza  (4,  4,  4,  3; 
abcby)  despite  its  inappropriateness,  for  he  had  not  yet  mastered 
even  the  elementary  rhyme  scheme  of  the  ballad.  He  al- 
lows such  crude  rhymes  as  fear-wear,  torn-burn,  mystery-to  die, 
and  majesty-eye.  The  caesura  slides  about  to  accommodate  the 
thought,  in  prophecy,  perhaps,  that  the  substance  of  his  verse 
will  ever  mean  more  to  Whitman  than  its  form.  At  this  stage 
he  takes  full  advantage  of  poetic  license  and  conventional  dic- 
tion. 

"Young  Grimes,"3  published  the  next  year,  is  serious  neither 
in  theme  nor  in  treatment;  and  yet  it  illustrates  how  difficult  it 
was  for  Whitman  to  be  entirely  trivial  or  objective  with  a  pen 
in  his  hand.  He  opens  the  poem  in  a  spirit  of  genial  satire  not 
unsuited  to  the  popular  ballad,  but  before  he  concludes  he  has 
read  a  sermon  on  the  rewards  of  virtue  and  has  (apparently) 

1  At  one  time  critics  attempted  to  dispose  of  Whitman's  claims  as  a  poet  by  charging 
that  he  had  invented  a  new  form  only  because  he  could  not  compete  with  others  in  con- 
ventional measures.  In  reply  more  friendly  critics  have  sometimes  cited  the  few  bits  of 
conventional  verse  hitherto  known  to  be  Whitman's,  to  prove  that  he  could  manipulate 
rhyme  and  metre  when  he  chose.  The  contention  of  the  latter  critics  is  considerably 
strengthened  with  the  new  poems  here  preserved,  but  their  argument  does  not  seem  to  me 
the  strongest  by  which  to  defend  the  poetry  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass" — if,  indeed,  defense 
be  necessary  at  this  late  day.  The  fair  test  of  his  poetic  ability  is  to  inquire,  not  whether 
he  could  write  in  rhyme,  but  whether  he  could  make  poetry  of  what  he  chose  to  write. 

*See  I,  p.  1.        8See  I,  pp.  2-4. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxxxv 

with  gentle  irony  described  himself!  These  stanzas  appear 
in  the  Long  Island  Democrat  amid  a  number  of  other  mock- 
heroic  ballads,  from  anonymous  contributors,  on  the  fortunes 
of  Father  Grimes  and  his  posterity,  as  if  Whitman  had  fallen 
a  victim  to  a  passing  epidemic  of  doggerel.  The  stanza  is  that 
of  the  ancient  ballad  (4,  3,  4,  3;  abcb),1  employed  somewhat 
loosely.  In  one  verse  the  rhyme,  being  double,  produces 
hypercatalectic  lines.2  The  rhyming  shows  improvement,  on 
the  whole,  for  in  a  poem  nearly  twice  as  long  as  "Our 
Future  Lot"  the  number  of  defective  rhymes  is  scarcely  greater: 
fourte en-pain,  board-yard,  son-town,  men-pain,  and  prove-love. 
The  author  personifies  abstract  ideas,  as  Plenty,  Benevolence, 
Happiness,  and  Content,  and  he  makes  use  of  a  few  poetic 
contractions;  but  diction  and  imagery  are  neither  oppressively 
conventional  nor  noticeably  original.  A  fact  worthy  of  note, 
however,  is  that  Whitman  at  this  period  contrasts  life  in  the 
country  with  life  in  the  city  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  latter; 
yet  within  two  years  he  was  to  go  to  the  city — to  live  in  it  and 
to  become  its  poet.  For  once  in  his  early  verse,  he  here  seeks, 
by  means  of  unexpected  variations,  a  humorous  effect. 

"Fame's  Vanity,"3  also  written  in  1839,  reverts  to  the  stanza 
form  of  "Our  Future  Lot,"  but  it  evinces  a  marked  increase  of 
imagination  and  a  decided  improvement  in  phrasing.  The 
rhyming  is  still  imperfect,  allowing  store-power  and  know-brow, 
while  a  few  lines  are  wanting  in  regularity  of  metre  and  even  in 
rhythm;  but  the  emotional  effect  of  the  stanzas  is  more  sus- 
tained than  in  the  previous  poems.  Here  the  heart  of  the  young 
man  is  debating  whether  his  ambition  be  not  a  vain  and  selfish 
thing  in  the  presence  of  man's  inescapable  mortality.  The 
affirmative  answer  he  reaches  does  not  satisfy  him  for  long,  for 
three  years  later  the  poem  is  altered  and  republished.4  Ab- 
stractions are  again  personified,  such  as  Glory  and  Oblivion,  and 
such  poetic  diction  as  "viewless  air"  is  utilized.  But  the  con- 
cluding stanza  is  more  imaginative  than  anything  he  has  yet 
written.  It  may  have  been  suggested  by  the  conclusion  of 
"Thanatopsis." 

In  the  next  preserved  poem,  "My  Departure,"5  Whitman 

1With  this  stanza  Whitman  had  early  become  familiar  in  Scott's  "Border  Minstrelsy." 

•The  second  and  fourth  lines  of  the  second  stanza. 

•See  I,  pp.  4-5. 

'Under  the  caption  "Ambition";  see  I,  pp.  19-20. 

5See  I,  pp.  5-6. 


lxxxvi  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

resumes  his  meditations  on  death.  Here,  however,  death  ap- 
pears as  a  dream  rather  than  a  passionate  desire,  as  in  "The 
Love  That  Is  Hereafter."1  The  influence  of  nature  has  made  the 
thought  of  death  pleasant,  whereas  in  the  first  of  his  poems 
Whitman  had  invoked  the  consolations  of  religion  to  make  the 
thought  endurable.  The  stanza  form  is  the  tetrameter  qua- 
train, rhyming  abcb.  The  rhymes  are  faulty,  as  cloud-blood, 
come-bloom,  have-wave,  overhead-shade,  and  sun-alone;  and  the 
metre  is  at  times  irregular  if  not  actually  pedestrian.  On  the 
other  hand,  due  to  the  influence  of  nature,  which  will  in  the  end 
prove  Whitman's  poetic  salvation,  there  is  an  increased  unity 
of  tone  and  a  more  concrete  and  objective  treatment.  In 
1843  Whitman  published  a  redaction  of  the  poem,  improving 
it  enough  to  earn  the  qualified  praise  of  the  editor  of  the  Brother 
Jonathan,  in  which  it  appeared.2  That  the  young  poet  was  inex- 
perienced rather  than  careless  in  his  early  poetizing  is  indicated 
not  only  by  his  frequent  revisions  but  also  by  the  increasing  skill 
with  which  he  handles  simple  measures  and  by  the  relative 
success  of  his  attempts  to  employ  more  and  more  complicated 
forms.  In  the  redaction  of  "My  Departure,"  the  improve- 
ment is  sometimes  due  to  alterations  in  diction  or  phrasing, 
sometimes  to  the  elimination  of  redundancy,  but  especially 
to  the  substitution  of  the  third  person  for  the  first.  There 
is,  however,  no  improvement  in  the  rhyming. 

"The  Inca's  Daughter,"3  which  follows,  is  a  little  ballad  of 
eight  regular  stanzas.  It  conforms  to  the  early-ballad  type 
much  more  closely  than  anything  Whitman  has  yet  written, 
not  only  in  the  management  of  the  stanza,  but  also  in  the  selec- 
tion of  a  theme — the  self-destruction  of  a  proud  captive  maiden 
— and  in  the  impersonality  of  treatment.  I  have  been  unable 
to  discover  where  Whitman  got  the  idea  for  this  poem — not, 
of  course,  from  the  "Border  Minstrelsy,"  though  Scott's  collec- 
tion probably  gave  him  the  method. 

A  fortnight  later  Whitman  published  "The  Love  That  Is 
Hereafter,"1  in  quintets  of  four  iambic  tetrameters  closed  by  an 
Iambic  trimeter,  the  stanza  rhyming  aabbc.  Either  he  or  the 
compositor  forgot  to  count  the  verses  in  the  third  stanza,  which 
is  only  a  quatrain,  but  the  remaining  eight  stanzas  are  regular. 
The  new  stanza  form,  being  more  difficult,  is  not  always  em- 
ployed without  uncouthness,  and  the  rhymes  include  man- 
vain,  rest-least,  care-bier,  then-pain,  and  wove-above.    However, 

» See  I,  pp.  9-10.        »SeeI,  p.  7.        » See  I,  pp.  8-9. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxxxvii 

the  poem  is  carefully  constructed  so  as  to  accentuate  the  effect 
of  the  prayer  uttered  in  the  final  stanzas.  The  poet  contrasts 
the  peace  and  harmony  of  nature  with  the  vexatious  and  futile 
strife,  the  unsatisfied  hope,  of  mankind;  and  then,  despairing 
of  finding  real  affection  on  earth,  he  prays  that  this  boon  may  at 
least  be  granted  in  heaven. 

After  two  months  he  again  sang  of  death  as  a  release  from  a 
troubled  life.  The  conclusion  to  "We  All  Shall  Rest  at  Last"1 
almost  certainly  was  written  with  "Thanatopsis"  in  mind.2 
The  stanza,  the  same  as  that  in  "Our  Future  Lot"  and  "Fame's 
Vanity,"  is  here  handled  well  enough  to  demand  no  revision  at 
Whitman's  hands  when  he  republished  a  poem  about  a  year 
later.     The  rhyme  is  almost  faultless. 

Shortly  after  the  publication  of  the  last-mentioned  poem, 
appeared  a  second  little  ballad  dealing  with  a  tragic  story, 
"The  Spanish  Lady."3  Its  stanza  may  be  described  as  a  ballad 
stanza  the  first  line  of  which  is  catalectic  and  feminine  and  in 
which  anapaests  are  freely  but  ineffectively  substituted  for  the 
regular  iambs.  In  one  instance4  an  iambic  tetrameter  replaces 
the  regular  trimeter  composed  of  one  anapaest  and  two  iambs. 
The  poem  is  far  from  successful.  Whitman  never  possessed 
skill  in  telling  a  story  in  verse.  Not  only  is  the  phrasing 
prosaic,  but  the  narrative  is  without  motivation,  suspense,  or 
climax. 

In  "The  End  of  AH,"8  published  in  September,  1840,  Whitman 
turns  to  a  favourite  theme  of  the  period,  the  vanity  of  human 
ambitions  when  compared  to  the  achievements  of  Creation. 
But  here  he  attempts  a  less  subjective  treatment — a  more 
didactic  method,  in  fact — and  a  new  verse  form.  The  stanza 
is  a  sestet  composed  of  five  iambic  tetrameters  and  one  iambic 
trimeter,  rhyming  abcbdb.  There  are  two  imperfect  rhymes 
{destiny-eye  and  brow-slow),  but  there  are  no  glaring  irregu- 
larities in   the  metre.     When   the  poem  was  republished  as 

»See  I,  pp.  io-ii. 

s  For  Whitman's  indebtedness  to  Bryant  see  also  I,  p.  1 1 5,  note.  Attention  has  been 
called  to  the  similarity  between  a  section  of  " My  Departure,"  and  "Thanatopsis."  Per- 
haps a  more  striking  similarity  exists  between  "The  End  of  All"  (I,  pp.  13-15)  and  Bry- 
ant's "The  Flood  of  Years,"  published  long  afterward.  Whitman,  like  Bryant,  fre- 
quently poetized  about  man  in  the  mass,  but  he  learned  to  do  so  with  a  warmth  of  affec- 
tion unknown  to  the  older  poet's  eighteenth-century  verse.  Cf.  "With  Walt  Whit- 
man in  Camden,"  III,  p.  515. 

•See  I,  pp.  12-13. 

*The  second  line  in  the  last  stanza. 

■See  I,  pp.  13-15. 


lxxxviii  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

"The  Winding-Up " l  in  the  same  paper  in  1841,  a  few  changes 
were  made  in  the  diction,  and  one  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
stanzas,  while  one  stanza  was  completely  rewritten,  each 
alteration  being  an  improvement. 

The  tendency  to  experiment  with  more  intricate  verse  forms 
was  carried  still  further  in  the  following  month,  when  Whitman 
published  "The  Columbian's  Song"2  in  four  stanzas  irregular  in 
length,  rhyme  scheme,  and  construction.  Since  only  two 
stanzas  have  the  same  number  of  lines,  it  is  improbable  that 
Whitman  was  following  a  model.  Whether  the  "song"  was 
ever  sung,  as  was  the  author's  Fourth  of  July  "Ode,"3 1  do  not 
know;  but  if  sung  it  could  hardly  have  aroused  much  patriotic 
emotion.  Nevertheless,  it  has  its  place  as  an  experiment  in 
versification  and  among  the  "glory  of  America"  poems  that  had 
been  common  enough  since  the  days  of  Philip  Freneau.  The 
national  pride  which  inspires  this  prophetic  outburst  was  to 
become  even  more  prominent  as  an  element  of  Whitman's 
maturer  singing  than  was  the  celebration  of  death. 

The  next  poem  to  be  published,  though  it  had  been  written  a 
year  or  so  earlier,  was  an  allegory  on  "The  Punishment  of 
Pride,"4  which  appeared  in  December,  1841.  The  poet  still 
dreams  of  the  realm  of  spirits,  but  now  much  more  poetically. 
This  imaginative  composition  belongs  in  a  class  with  such  bits  of 
poetic  prose  as  "The  Angel  of  Tears"5  and  "Eris,"6  which 
seem  to  show  the  influence  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  This  allegory 
teaches  how  charity  and  pity  grow  from  actual  knowledge  of 
human  weakness  and  sorrow,  and  indicates  the  abandonment 
of  the  youthful  pharisaism  of  some  of  the  earlier  pieces.  The 
stanza  used  is  a  new  one  for  Whitman — seven  lines,  all  iambic 
tetrameters  except  the  third  and  fifth  (which  are  usually  iambic 
trimeters),  rhyming  aabcbdd.  The  diction,  phrasing,  and 
versifying  are  now  more  mature  and  modulated,  but  the  un- 
accustomed rhyme  scheme,  taken  with  the  length  of  the  poem, 
results  in  a  large  number  of  poor  endings:  throne-one *,  come- 
doom,  worn-scorn,  messenger-fair,  heard-scared,  high-majesty, 
shone-one,  and  charity-eye.  The  poet's  vocabulary  is  still  very 
conventional  and  limited,  and  it  may  have  been  that  the 
absence  of  more  than  a  single  poem  in  which  he  was  rhyme- 
perfect  indicted  a  conscious  or  unconscious  reason  for  his  final 
creation  of  a  verse  form  in  which  rhyme  was  unnecessary.     That 

iSee  I,  p.  13,  note,        'See  I,  pp.  15-16.        sSee  I,  pp.  22-23. 
«See  I,  pp.  17-19.        BSee  I,  pp.  83-86.        «See  I,  pp.  86-89. 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  lxxxix 

in  itself,  however,  was  manifestly  not  Whitman's  only,  or  prin- 
cipal, reason  for  inventing  a  new  prosody,  for  he  could  write 
correct,  smooth  blank  verse  when  he  chose,  as  will  appear  in 
the  next  poem  that  he  published. 

This  was  "Ambition,"1  the  redaction  of  "Fame's  Vanity" 
previously  mentioned.  The  alterations  in  form  and  content  are 
noteworthy.  The  original  stanzas  are  enveloped  between  a 
prologue  and  an  epilogue  of  blank  verse.  The  prologue  de- 
scribes a  youth  tormented  with  the  desire  for  fame,  in  whom, 
without  much  difficulty,  the  reader  recognizes  the  author 
himself.  To  him  a  mystical  voice  speaks  in  the  language  of 
the  original  poem,  declaring  human  ambition  to  be  vanity  of 
vanities.  This  part  of  the  poem  displays  marked  improve- 
ment over  the  original  draft.  In  the  epilogue  we  are  informed 
that  the  youth,  though  silenced  by  the  words  of  the  unseen 
visitor,  does  not  take  his  rebuke  very  meekly.  So  far  as  we 
know,  his  poetic  attempts  were,  however,  limited  to  two  publi- 
cations in  the  next  five  years.  But  in  1847  or  soon  afterwards 
he  received  a  very  different  visit  from  the  Muse. 

One  of  the  remaining  poems  of  the  conventional  sort  is  "The 
Play-Ground."2  This  mawkishly  sentimental  verse  gets  no- 
where, either  as  a  description  or  as  a  bit  of  dreamy  moralizing. 
The  form  is  the  simplest  that  Whitman  knew  and  the  diction  is 
particularly  conventional. 

The  last  poem  written  before  the  beginning  of  Whitman's  ex- 
periments in  free  verse  was  an  ode  composed  to  be  sung  to  the 
tune  of  the  national  hymn  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  1846.3  The 
stanza  was  perhaps  the  most  exacting  that  he  had  attempted, 
and  yet  in  it  his  success  is  noteworthy  for  an  occasional 
poem.  The  rhyming  is,  for  once,  without  fault,  and  the  patri- 
otic sentiment  is  not  only  disencumbered  of  the  weakening 
braggadocio  of  "The  Columbian's  Song,"  but  it  is  particularly 
well  adapted  to  the  time  and  place. 

Then  came  the  irregular,  undecided  attempts  in  what  has 
come  to  be  called  vers  libre^  preserved  in  the  manuscript  note- 
books to  which  reference  has  already  been  made  in  the  preced- 
ing section  of  this  essay.  The  slow,  eventful  growth  of  the 
First  Edition  is  nowhere  more  clearly  indicated  than  in  the  fact 
that,  though  these  note  books  contain  many  of  the  very  lines 
to  be  employed  in  that  edition,  the  great  experiment  was  not 
committed  to  type  until  after  many  years  of  careful  revision. 

»See  I,  pp.  19-20.        2See  I,  p.  21.        3See  I,  pp.  22—23. 


xc  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

Remembering  that  these  note-book  essays  were  in  Whitman's 
mind  during  these  years,  we  shall  continue  to  trace  the  rest  of 
the  poems  known  to  have  been  written  before  1855. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  1848  he  wrote,  it  must  have  been  im- 
promptu, a  little  poem1  comparing  the  weather  changes  of  New 
Year's  day  and  the  shifting  fortunes  of  human  life.  It  would 
be  unjustifiable,  perhaps,  to  seek  to  discover  a  subconscious 
meaning  in  his  prayer  to  be  guarded  from  "caprices  and  all 
foolish  ways"  recorded  only  a  few  weeks  before  he  was  to  pro- 
voke the  ire  of  his  employer  and  so  to  lose  his  "comfortable  berth" 
in  the  Eagle  office,  but  the  coincidence  is  at  least  interesting. 
In  form  the  poem  is  neither  fish,  flesh,  nor  fowl;  for  though  it 
opens,  apparently,  with  the  intention  of  being  blank  verse,  the 
second  line  is  iambic  tetrameter,  others  are  hexameters,  and 
the  last  three  rhyme  together!  Possibly  this  is  what  the  first 
drafts  of  all  Whitman's  early  poems  looked  like,  for  we  know  his 
habit  of  carefully  revising  his  verse  before  publication;  but,  in 
part,  at  least,  it  must  have  been  due  to  his  then  novel  ideas  of 
rhythm.2  Of  course,  one  does  not  expect  in  a  poem  written 
impromptu  in  an  album  the  sort  of  inspiration  that  gives  the 
note-books  their  freshness  and  dynamic  power.  Accordingly, 
knowing  that  Whitman  was  neither  an  improvisator  nor  a 
master  of  society  verse,  one  is  not  surprised  to  find  in  the  poem 
verses  which  regard  neither  rhythm  nor  metre,  but  are  simply 
prose. 

That,  although  Whitman  did  not  at  once  determine  to  aban- 
don rhyme  and  metre,  he  was  nevertheless  hampered  in  his 
composition  of  conventional  verse  by  a  divided  mind,  is  shown, 
I  think,  by  the  unusual  roughness  in  the  metre  of  "The  Missis- 
sippi at  Midnight"3  as  originally  printed  in  the  New  Orleans 
Crescent  early  in  March,  1848.4  This  poem  betrays  a  con- 
sciousness, not  only  of  mysterious  emotional  depths  within 
himself,  but  also  of  a  new  mission  in  life.  As  has  been  stated, 
New  Orleans  inspired  Whitman  with  no  poetry  at  the  time  of 
his  first  visit,  though  it  gave  him  hints  for  numerous  passages 
in  his  later  verse.    The  caresser  of  life,  the  saunterer  in  bar- 

»SeeI,  pp.  23-24- 

»If  the  poetic  parts  of  the  first  note-book  were  written  in  1848  or  1849  (see  II,  p.  6^y 
note)  then  of  course  this  poem  belongs  before  them  in  strict  chronology. 

»Not  included  in  this  collection. 

4Another  conventional  poem  published  after  the  date  of  the  note-book  specimens  is  the 
Dough-Face  Song." 


INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL  xci 

rooms  and  along  the  levees,  the  student  of  humanity  is  for  the 
time  engrossed  in  the  luscious  enjoyment  of  what  is  to  him  a 
new  and  romantic  world,  quite  foreign  to  the  one  in  which  had 
been  born  the  mystic  and  the  prophet  bent  on  creating  a  new 
national  poetry.  But,  as  has  been  shown  in  the  foregoing  essay, 
Whitman  went  south  more  than  once,  and  it  is  possible  that  he 
was  on  his  way  thither,  in  the  fall  of  1849,1  when  he  wrote  his 
next  poem,  "Isle  of  La  Belle  Riviere,"2  and  gave  it  to  his  host 
on  Blennerhasset  Island.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  this 
poem,  written  in  what  is  now  called  imagist  verse,  was  not 
a  development  of,  but  a  step  toward,  the  rhythms  of  the  "Leaves 
of  Grass."  It  has  rhythm,  but  it  is  bare  in  diction  and  smacks 
much  more  of  wit  than  of  emotion.  The  title,  it  will  be  ob- 
served, makes  use  of  the  French  which  had  caught  Whitman's 
fancy  while  in  New  Orleans.  And  the  somewhat  peculiar 
images  employed,  though  obviously  only  figures  of  speech, 
may  have  had  some  psychological  connection  with  the  poet's 
errand  southward  if  we  are  entitled  to  surmise  that  errand  to 
have  had  anything  to  do  with  his  paternity  of  children  by  a 
married  woman.3 

Three  poems  approximating  much  more  closely  than  did  this 
imagist  verse  the  style  of  1855  were  published  in  the  summer  of 
1850.  One  of  these,  "The  House  of  Friends,"4  contains  so 
much  about  the  South,5  said  almost  as  a  Southerner  might  have 
said  it,  as  to  strengthen  the  belief  that  there  had  been  a  south- 
ern journey  in  the  spring  or  fall  preceding.  It  is  plain  that 
what  differentiates  these  poems — "Blood-Money,"6  "The 
House  of  Friends,"  and  "  Resurgemus  "  7 — from  the  imagist  verse 
just  mentioned  is  the  charge  of  passionate  indignation  which 
gives  them  a  freer  swing  of  rhythm,  as  of  eloquence  born  of  deep 
and  sudden  feeling.  Just  what  is  wanting  to  make  true  "  Leaves 
of  Grass"  verse  of  these  early  contributions  to  Horace  Greeley's 
New  York  Tribune  can  be  discovered  by  comparing  the  original 
text  of  "Resurgemus"  with  the  version  of  that  poem  in  the 
1855  edition  of  the  "Leaves,"  which  is  reproduced  in  the  present 
volumes.8  A  few  "stock  poetical  touches"  remain  to  be  elimi- 
nated, but  the  chief  alteration  to  be  made  is  not  in  the  diction 
or  phrasing,  but  in  the  line  length.     The  style  in  the  later  ver- 

»See  infra,  p.  li,  note  5.        *Sec  I,  p.  24,  note;  also,  p.  216,  note. 

^ee  infra,  p.  Iviii,  note  15.         4See  I,  pp.  25-27.        *See  p.  25,  note  2. 

•See  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  372.  7See  I,  pp.  27-30.        8 Ibidem. 


xcii  INTRODUCTION:  CRITICAL 

sion  is  rendered  more  coherent,  and  there  is  an  increased  par- 
allelism within  the  line  and  between  the  lines.  The  whole  is 
given  a  more  impressive  dignity  by  doubling  the  length  of 
most  of  the  lines,  which  yet  can  be  accommodated  on  a  large 
octavo  page,  the  distinction  between  the  original  verses  being 
preserved  by  means  of  a  series  of  points  in  the  middle  of  each 
line.  In  tone  the  later  version  is  equally  impassioned,  but 
more  restrained,  less  defiant.  Most  important  of  all,  as  giving 
us  the  working  principle  which  Whitman  next  evolved,  the  line 
is  now  based  on  an  idea,  stated  with  or  without  explication, 
and  a  free  rhythm,  rather  than  upon  any  predetermined 
standard  of  measurement. 

To  recapitulate:  Whitman  began  versifying  with  the  simplest 
of  forms,  the  ballad  measure,  employing  it  with  certain  varia- 
tions and  with  increasing  skill;  then  he  made  use  of  more  diffi- 
cult stanza  forms,  but  limiting  himself  to  trimeter  and  tetra- 
meter iambic  lines;  next  he  wrote  a  little  blank  verse,  though  he 
did  not  abandon  rhyme  at  once,  but  rather  increased  his  mastery 
of  it;  then  he  made  private  experiments  with  some  of  the  very 
material  he  was  to  work  over,  through  several  years,  for  the 
1855  edition  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  experiments  dictated  by 
some  new  and  powerful  mystical  experience;  after  that  the 
verse  he  gave  to  the  world  was  either  hybrid  or  otherwise  irreg- 
ular; then  came  hard  and  objective  imagist  verse,  as  though  in 
working  out  a  new  vehicle  of  expressson  the  mind  had  come 
unduly  to  dominate  his  usual  emotion;  next,  fired  by  cowardice 
and  injustice  on  the  part  of  the  leaders  of  the  nation,  he  pub- 
lished some  of  his  new  verse,  charged  with  passion,  but  it  was 
passion  timed  for  the  moment  rather  than  for  eternity,  and 
hence  was  ejaculatory  and  unrhythmical;  and,  finally,  this  was 
disciplined,  poise  and  sweeping  rhythm  were  added,  and  a 
standard  of  line  length  was  adopted  which  would  fit  the  bold 
but  delicate  burden  of  his  song.  Thenceforth  there  was  a  new 
poetry  in  America. 


THE 

UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND  PROSE 

OF 

WALT  WHITMAN 


THE    UNCOLLECTED    POETRY    AND    PROSE 

OF 
WALT    WHITMAN 


POEMS 

OUR  FUTURE  LOT* 

This  breast  which  now  alternate  burns 
With  flashing  hope,  and  gloomy  fear, 

Where  beats  a  heart  that  knows  the  hue 
Which  aching  bosoms  wear; 

This  curious  frame  of  human  mold, 
Where  craving  wants  unceasing  play — 

The  troubled  heart  and  wondrous  form 
Must  both  alike  decay. 

The  cold  wet  earth  will  close  around 
Dull  senseless  limbs,  and  ashy  face, 

But  where,  O  Nature!  where  will  be 
My  mind's  abiding  place? 

Will  it  ev'n  live?     For  though  its  light 
Must  shine  till  from  the  body  torn; 

Then,  when  the  oil  of  life  is  spent, 
Still  shall  the  taper  burn  ? 

O,  powerless  is  this  struggling  brain 
To  pierce  the  mighty  mystery; 

In  dark,  uncertain  awe  it  waits, 
The  common  doom — to  die ! 


1From  the  Long  Island  Democrat  (Jamaica,  L.  I.),  October  31,  1838,  into  which  it  had 
been  copied,  in  whole  or  in  part,  "from  the  Long  Islander."  This  latter  paper  was  the 
first  that  Whitman  edited.  It  was  a  weekly  issued  at  the  little  town  of  Huntington 
near  Whitman's  birthplace,  beginning  in  June,  1838.  On  this  sheet  Whitman  did 
practically  all  the  work,  being  editor,  reporter,  printer,  publisher,  and  news-carrier  all 
in  one.  This  fact,  taken  with  the  obvious  Whitman  manner  of  treatment  both  as  to 
theme  and  as  to  style,  seems  to  establish  his  authorship,  although  the  poem  was  not 
signed  in  the  Democrat. 


THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Mortal !  and  can  thy  swelling  soul 
Live  with  the  thought  that  all  its  life 

Is  centered  in  this  earthy  cage 
Of  care,  and  tears,  and  strife  ? 

Not  so;  that  sorrowing  heart  of  thine 
Ere  long  will  find  a  house  of  rest; 

Thy  form,  re-purified,  shall  rise, 
In  robes  of  beauty  drest. 

The  flickering  taper's  glow  shall  change 
To  bright  and  starlike  majesty, 

Radiant  with  pure  and  piercing  light 
From  the  Eternal's  eye! 


YOUNG  GRIMES1 

When  old  Grimes  died,  he  left  a  son — 
The  graft  of  worthy  stock; 

In  deed  and  word  he  shows  himself 
A  chip  of  the  old  block. 

In  youth,  'tis  said,  he  liked  not  school — 

Of  tasks  he  was  no  lover; 
He  wrote  sums  in  a  ciphering  book, 

Which  had  a  pasteboard  cover. 

Young  Grimes  ne'er  went  to  see  the  girls 

Before  he  was  fourteen; 
Nor  smoked,  nor  swore,  for  that  he  knew 

Gave  Mrs.  Grimes  much  pain. 

He  never  was  extravagant 
In  pleasure,  dress,  or  board; 

His  Sunday  suit  was  of  blue  cloth, 
At  six  and  eight  a  yard. 

From  the  Long  Island  Democrat ',  January  1, 1839. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN 

But  still  there  is,  to  tell  the  truth, 

No  stinginess  in  him; 
And  in  July  he  wears  an  old 

Straw  hat  with  a  broad  brim. 


No  devotee  in  fashion's  train 

Is  good  old  Grimes's  son; 
He  sports  no  cane — no  whiskers  wears, 

Nor  lounges  o'er  the  town.1 

He  does  not  spend  more  than  he  earns 

In  dissipation's  round; 
But  shuns  with  care  those  dangerous  rooms 

Where  vice  and  sin  abound. 

It  now  is  eight  and  twenty  years 

Since  young  Grimes  saw  the  light; 
And  no  house  in  the  land  can  show 

A  fairer,  prouder  sight. 

For  there  his  wife,  prudent  and  chaste, 

His  mother's  age  made  sweet, 
His  children  trained  in  virtue's  path, 

The  gazer's  eye  will  meet. 

Upon  a  hill,  just  off  the  road 

That  winds  the  village  side, 
His  farm  house  stands,  within  whose  door 

Ne'er  entered  Hate  or  Pride. 

But  Plenty  and  Benevolence 

And  Happiness  are  there — 
And  underneath  that  lowly  roof 

Content  smiles  calm  and  fair. 

JThe  subjectivity  which  permeates  nearly  all  of  Whitman's  early  verse  here  appears, 
perhaps,  as  a  description  of  himself.  (Cf.  "Habitants  of  Hotels,"  post,  I,  pp.  194-195 
which,  as  Mr.  W.  K.  Dart  suggests,  may  belong  in  the  same  category.)  But  such  de- 
tails as  are  given  in  this  stanza  contradict  the  evidence  of  his  only  extant  photograph 
of  the  period  (see  frontispiece,  Vol.  II)  which  shows  both  cane  and  beard,  while  his 
avowed  fondness  for  loafing  was  to  be  recorded,  within  the  year,  by  the  poet  himself. 
(See/»oj/,I,pp.  44-46.) 


THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Reader,  go  view  the  cheerful  scene — 

By  it  how  poor  must  prove 
The  pomp,  and  tinsel,  and  parade, 

Which  pleasure's  followers  love. 

Leave  the  wide  city's  noisy  din — 

The  busy  haunts  of  men — 
And  here  enjoy  a  tranquil  life, 

Unvexed  by  guilt  or  pain. 


FAME'S  VANITY1 

O,  many  a  panting,  noble  heart 

Cherishes  in  its  deep  recess 
The  hope  to  win  renown  o'er  earth 

From  Glory's  prized  caress. 

And  some  will  reach  that  envied  goal, 

And  have  their  fame  known  far  and  wide; 

And  some  will  sink  unnoted  down 
In  dark  Oblivion's  tide. 

But  I,  who  many  a  pleasant  scheme 
Do  sometimes  cull  from  Fancy's  store, 

With  dreams,  such  as  the  youthful  dream, 
Of  grandeur,  love,  and  power — 

Shall  I  build  up  a  lofty  name, 
And  seek  to  have  the  nations  know 

What  conscious  might  dwells  in  the  brain 
That  throbs  aneath  this  brow? 

And  have  thick  countless  ranks  of  men 

Fix  upon  me  their  reverent  gaze, 
And  listen  to  the  deafening  shouts, 

To  me  that  thousands  raise? 

iFrom  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  October  23, 1839. 

The  poem  was  later  incorporated  in  "Ambition"  (see post,  I,  pp.  19-20)  with  a  num- 
ber of  significant  alterations. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN 

Thou  foolish  soul !  the  very  place 
That  pride  has  made  for  folly's  rest; 

What  thoughts  with  vanity  all  rife, 
Fill  up  this  heaving  breast! 

Fame,  O  what  happiness  is  lost 
In  hot  pursuit  of  thy  false  glare! 

Thou,  whose  drunk  votaries  die  to  gain 
A  puff  of  viewless  air. 

So,  never  let  me  more  repine, 
Though  I  live  on  obscure,  unknown, 

Though  after  death  unsought  may  be 
My  markless  resting  stone.1 


For  mighty  one  and  lowly  wretch, 
Dull,  idiot  mind,  or  teeming  sense, 

Must  sleep  on  the  same  earthy  couch, 
A  hundred  seasons  hence. 


MY  DEPARTURE* 

Not  in  a  gorgeous  hall  of  pride, 

Mid  tears  of  grief  and  friendship's  sigh, 

Would  I,  when  the  last  hour  has  come, 
Shake  off  this  crumbling  flesh  and  die. 


»This  early  passage  has  a  peculiar  interest  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  poet  saved 
money  for  several  years  previous  to  his  death  to  build  the  massive  granite  tomb  bearing 
the  simple  legend  "Walt  Whitman"  in  which,  with  other  members  of  his  family,  his 
body  now  rests. 

Cf.  also  post,  I,  pp.  230-231;  II,  pp.  125,  15a. 

2From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  November  27,  1839. 

The  poem  was  reprinted  in  the  Brother  Jonathan  (New  York),  Vol.  IV,  No.  10, 
March  11,  1843.  As  the  later  version  shows  many  alterations  and  improvements,  it  is 
given  on  p.  7,  post.  The  editor  of  the  Brother  Jonathan  introduced  the  poem  with  the 
remark,  "The  following  wants  but  a  half-hour's  polish  to  make  of  it  an  effusion  of  very 
uncommon  beauty. — Ed." 

In  this  latter  version  the  poem  was  reprinted  again,  after  Whitman's  death,  in  the 
Conservator •,  Vol.  XII,  p.  189,  January,  1905. 


THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

My  bed  I  would  not  care  to  have 

With  rich  and  costly  stuffs  hung  round; 

Nor  watched  with  an  officious  zeal, 
To  keep  away  each  jarring  sound. 

Amid  the  thunder  crash  of  war, 

Where  hovers  Death's  ensanguined  cloud, 

And  bright  swords  flash,  and  banners  fly, 
Above  the  sickening  sight  of  blood: 

Not  there — not  there,  would  I  lay  down 
To  sleep  with  all  the  firm  and  brave; 

For  death  in  such  a  scene  of  strife, 
Is  not  the  death  that  I  do  crave. 

But  when  the  time  for  my  last  look 
Upon  this  glorious  earth  should  come, 

I'd  wish  the  season  warm  and  mild, 
The  sun  to  shine,  and  flowers  bloom. 

Just  ere  the  closing  of  the  day, 

My  dying  couch  I  then  would  have 
Borne  out  in  the  refreshing  air, 

Where  sweet  shrubs  grow  and  proud  trees  wave. 

The  still  repose  would  calm  my  mind. 

And  lofty  branches  overhead, 
Would  throw  around  this  grassy  bank, 

A  cooling  and  a  lovely  shade. 

At  distance  through  the  opening  trees, 

A  bay  by  misty  vapours  curled, 
I'd  gaze  upon,  and  think  the  haven 

For  which  to  leave  this  fleeting  world. 

To  the  wide  winds  I'd  yield  my  soul, 
And  die  there  in  that  pleasant  place, 

Looking  on  water,  sun,  and  hill, 
As  on  their  Maker's  very  face. 

I'd  want  no  human  being  near; 

But  at  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
I'd  bid  adieu  to  earth,  and  step 

Down  to  the  Unknown  World — alone. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  NATURE  LOVER 

Not  in  a  gorgeous  hall  of  pride 

Where  tears  fall  thick,  and  loved  ones  sigh, 
Wisht  he,  when  the  dark  hour  approached 

To  drop  his  veil  of  flesh,  and  die. 

Amid  the  thundercrash  of  strife, 

Where  hovers  War's  ensanguined  cloud, 

And  bright  swords  flash  and  banners  fly- 
Above  the  wounds,  and  groans,  and  blood. 

Not  there — not  there!    Death's  look  he'd  cast 

Around  a  furious  tiger's  den, 
Rather  than  in  the  monstrous  sight 

Of  the  red  butcheries  of  men. 

Days  speed:  the  time  for  that  last  look 

Upon  this  glorious  earth  has  come: 
The  Power  he  serves  so  well  vouchsafes 

The  sun  to  shine,  the  flowers  to  bloom. 

Just  ere  the  closing  of  the  day, 

His  fainting  limbs  he  needs  have 
Borne  out  into  the  fresh  free  air, 

Where  sweet  shrubs  grow,  and  proud  trees  wave. 

At  distance,  o'er  the  pleasant  fields, 

A  bay  of  misty  vapors  curled, 
He  gazes  on,  and  thinks  the  haven 

For  which  to  leave  a  grosser  world. 

He  sorrows  not,  but  smiles  content, 

Dying  there  in  that  fragrant  place, 
Gazing  on  blossom,  field  and  bay, 

As  on  their  Maker's  very  face. 

The  cloud-arch  bending  overhead 

There,  at  the  setting  of  the  sun 
He  bids  adieu  to  earth,  and  steps 

Down  to  the  World  Unknown, 


THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 


THE  INCA'S  DAUGHTER1 

Before  the  dark-brow'd  sons  of  Spain, 
A  captive  Indian  maiden  stood; 

Imprison'd  where  the  moon  before 
Her  race  as  princes  trod. 

The  rack  had  riven  her  frame  that  day — 
But  not  a  sigh  or  murmur  broke 

Forth  from  her  breast;  calmly  she  stood, 
And  sternly  thus  she  spoke: — 

The  glory  of  Peru  is  gone; 

Her  proudest  warriors  in  the  fight — 
Her  armies,  and  her  Inca's  power 

Bend  to  the  Spaniard's  might. 


"And  I — a  Daughter  of  the  Sun — 
Shall  I  ingloriously  still  live? 
Shall  a  Peruvian  monarch's  child 
Become  the  white  lord's  slave? 


No:  I'd  not  meet  my  father's  frown 
In  the  free  spirit's  place  of  rest, 

Nor  seem  a  stranger  midst  the  bands 
Whom  Manitou  has  blest." 


Her  snake-like  eye,  her  cheek  of  fire, 
Glowed  with  intenser,  deeper  hue; 

She  smiled  in  scorn,  and  from  her  robe 
A  poisoned  arrow  drew. 

"Now,  paleface  see!    The  Indian  girl 
Can  teach  thee  how  to  bravely  die: 
Hail!  spirits  of  my  kindred  slain, 
A  sister  ghost  is  nigh!" 

1  »From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  May  5,  1840. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN 

Her  hand  was  clenched  and  lifted  high — 
Each  breath,  and  pulse,  and  limb  was  still'd; 

An  instant  more  the  arrow  fell: 
Thus  died  the  Inca's  child. 


THE  LOVE  THAT  IS  HEREAFTER1 

O,  beauteous  is  the  earth!  and  fair 
The  splendors  of  Creation  are: 
Nature's  green  robe,  the  shining  sky, 
The  winds  that  through  the  tree-tops  sigh, 
All  speak  a  bounteous  God. 

The  noble  trees,  the  sweet  young  flowers, 
The  birds  that  sing  in  forest  bowers, 
The  rivers  grand  that  murmuring  roll, 
And  all  which  joys  or  calms  the  soul 

Are  made  by  gracious  might. 

The  flocks  and  droves  happy  and  free, 
The  dwellers  of  the  boundless  sea, 
Each  living  thing  on  air  or  land, 

Is  formed  for  joy  and  peace. 

But  man — weak,  proud,  and  erring  man, 
Of  truth  ashamed,  of  folly  vain — 
Seems  singled  out  to  know  no  rest 
And  of  all  things  that  move,  feels  least 
The  sweets  of  happiness. 

Yet  he  it  is  whose  little  life 
Is  past  in  useless,  vexing  strife. 
And  all  the  glorious  earth  to  him 
Is  rendered  dull,  and  poor,  and  dim, 
From  hope  unsatisfied. 

He  faints  with  grief— he  toils  through  care — 
And  from  the  cradle  to  the  bier 
He  wearily  plods  on — till  Death 
Cuts  short  his  transient,  panting  breath, 
And  sends  him  to  his  sleep. 

» From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  May  1 9, 1 840. 


io  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

O,  mighty  powers  of  Destiny! 
When  from  this  coil  of  flesh  I'm  free — 
When  through  my  second  life  I  rove, 
Let  me  but  find  one  heart  to  love, 
As  I  would  wish  to  love: 

Let  me  but  meet  a  single  breast, 
Where  this  tired  soul  its  hope  may  rest, 
In  never-dying  faith:  ah,  then, 
That  would  be  bliss  all  free  from  pain, 
And  sickness  of  the  heart. 

For  vainly  through  this  world  below 
We  seek  affection.     Nought  but  wo 
Is  with  our  earthly  journey  wove; 
And  so  the  heart  must  look  above, 
Or  die  in  dull  despair. 


WE  ALL  SHALL  REST  AT  LAST1 

On  earth  are  many  sights  of  woe, 

And  many  sounds  of  agony, 
And  many  a  sorrow- withered  cheek, 

And  many  a  pain-dulled  eye. 

The  wretched  weep,  the  poor  complain, 
And  luckless  love  pines  on  unknown, 

And  faintly  from  the  midnight  couch 
Sounds  out  the  sick  child's  moan. 

Each  has  his  care:  old  age  fears  death; 

The  young  man's  ills  are  pride,  desire, 
And  heart-sickness,  and  in  his  breast 

The  heat  of  passion's  fire. 

» From  the  Long  Island  Democrat >  July  1 4, 1 840.  This  poem  was  republished  under  the 
title  "  Each  Has  His  Grief"  and  over  the  initials  "  W.  W."  in  the  New  World  (New  York), 
Vol.  Ill,  p.  1,  November  20,  1841.  The  only  alterations  are  in  the  punctuation  and 
capitalization,  which  are  uniformly  improved,  in  the  substitution  of  grief  for  care  in 
the  first  line  of  the  fourth  stanza,  and  in  the  insertion,  after  the  third  stanza,  of  the 
following  lines: 

And  he  who  runs  the  race  of  fame, 
Oft  feels  within  a  feverish  dread, 
Lest  others  snatch  the  laurel  crown 
He  bears  upon  his  head. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  n 

All,  all  know  grief;  and  at  the  close, 

All  lie  earth's  spreading  arms  within, 
The  pure,  the  black-souled,  proud  and  low, 

Virtue,  despair,  and  sin. 

O,  foolish,  then,  with  pain  to  shrink 
From  the  sure  doom  we  each  must  meet. 

Is  earth  so  fair  or  heaven  so  dark? 
Or  life  so  passing  sweet? 

No:  dread  ye  not  the  fearful  hour; 

The  coffin,  and  the  pall's  dark  gloom; 
For  there's  a  calm  to  throbbing  hearts, 

And  rest,  down  in  the  tomb. 

Then  our  long  journey  will  be  o'er, 

And  throwing  off  this  load  of  woes, 
The  pallid  brow,  the  feebled  limbs, 

Will  sink  in  soft  repose. 

Not  only  this;  for  wise  men  say 

That  when  we  leave  our  land  of  care, 
We  float  to  a  mysterious  shore, 

Peaceful,  and  pure,  and  fair. 

So,  welcome,  death;  whene'er  the  time 
That  the  dread  summons  must  be  met, 

I'll  yield  without  one  pang  of  awe, 
Or  sigh,  or  vain  regret; 

But  like  unto  a  wearied  child, 

That  over  field  and  wood  all  day 
Has  ranged  and  struggled,  and  at  last, 

Worn  out  with  toil  and  play — 


Goes  up  at  evening  to  his  home, 

And  throws  him,  sleepy,  tired,  and  sore, 

Upon  his  bed,  and  rests  him  there, 
His  pain  and  trouble  o'er. 


12  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 


THE  SPANISH  LADY1 

On  a  low  couch  reclining, 

When  slowly  waned  the  day, 
Wrapt  in  gentle  slumber, 

A  Spanish  maiden  lay. 

O  beauteous  was  that  lady; 

And  the  splendor  of  the  place 
Matched  well  her  form  so  graceful, 

And  her  sweet,  angelic  face. 

But  what  doth  she  lonely, 

Who  ought  in  courts  to  reign? 
For  the  form  that  there  lies  sleeping 

Owns  the  proudest  name  in  Spain. 

Tis  the  lovely  Lady  Inez, 

De  Castro's  daughter  fair, 
Who  in  the  castle  chamber, 

Slumbers  so  sweetly  there. 

O,  better  had  she  laid  her 

Mid  the  couches  of  the  dead; 
O,  better  had  she  slumbered 

Where  the  poisonous  snake  lay  hid. 

For  worse  than  deadly  serpent, 

Or  mouldering  skeleton, 
Are  the  fierce  bloody  hands  of  men, 

By  hate  and  fear  urged  on. 

O  Lady  Inez,  pleasant 

Be  the  thoughts  that  now  have  birth 
In  thy  visions;  they  are  last  of  all 

That  thou  shalt  dream  on  earth. 

*From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  August  4,  1840. 

This  legend-incrusted  story  of  fourteenth-century  Spain  was  the  inspiration  for  much 
drama,  fiction,  and  poetry  in  Spanish,  French,  Italian,  and  English.  The  narrative, 
of  which  Whitman  makes  use  of  only  the  climax,  can  be  read  in  concise  form  in  Mrs. 
Alphra  Behn's  "Agnes  de  Castro,"  pp.  209-256,  of  Vol.  5  of  the  Summers  edition  of  her 
works,  London  and  Stratford,  191 5. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  13 

Now  noiseless  on  its  hinges 

Opens  the  chamber  door, 
And  one  whose  trade  is  blood  and  crime 

Steals  slow  across  the  floor. 


High  gleams  the  assassin's  dagger; 

And  by  the  road  that  it  has  riven, 
The  soul  of  that  fair  lady 

Has  passed  from  earth  to  heaven. 


THE  END  OF  ALL1 

Behold  around  us  pomp  and  pride; 

The  rich,  the  lofty,  and  the  gay, 
Glitter  before  our  dazzled  eyes, 

Live  out  their  brief  but  brilliant  day; 
Then,  when  the  hour  for  fame  is  o'er, 
Unheeded  pass  away. 

»From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  September  22,  1840. 

This  poem  was  worked  over  and  republished  under  the  rather  inelegant  title  "The 
Winding-Up"  by  "W.  Whitman"  in  the  same  paper,  June  22,  1841.  In  the  later 
version  stanzas  three  and  four  are  reversed,  while  for  the  sixth  stanza  of  the  earlier  form 
the  later  poem  substitutes  the  following: 

Children  of  folly,  here  behold 

How  soon  the  fame  of  man  is  gone: 
Time  levels  all.    Trophies  and  names 

Inscription  that  the  proud  have  drawn 
Surpassing  strength — pillars  and  thrones 

Sink  as  the  waves  roll  on. 

The  redaction  has  also  the  following  minor  changes: 
LI.  3,  21,  39 — dashes  substituted  for  commas. 
L    19 — hyphen  omitted. 
L.    25 — comma  omitted. 
L.    26 — colon  substituted  for  comma. 
L.    38 — semicolon  substituted  for  interrogation  point. 
L.    39 — High  though  you  stand — tho  on  your  breast. 
L.    40 — Pride  substituted  for  rank. 
L.    37 — Nor  think  substituted  for  Think  not. 
LI.  44,  46 — dashes  substituted  for  commas. 
L.    45 — world  substituted  for  worlds. 
L.    47 — this  strife  substituted  for  the  silly  strife. 
L.    48 — Fame  substituted  (or fame. 


i4  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

The  warrior  builds  a  mighty  name, 

The  object  of  his  hopes  and  fears, 
That  future  times  may  see  it  where 

Her  tower  aspiring  glory  rears. 
Desist,  O  fool !    Think  what  thou'lt1  be 
In  a  few  fleeting  years. 

The  statesman's  sleepless  plodding  brain 

Schemes  out  a  nation's  destiny; 
His  is  the  voice  that  awes  the  crowd, 

And  his  the  bold,  commanding  eye:2 
But  transient  is  his  high  renown; 

He,  like  the  rest,  must  die. 

Beside  his  ponderous,  age-worn  book, 

A  student  shades  his  weary  brow; 
He  walks  philosophy's  dark  path, 

A  journey  difficult  and  slow: 
But  vain  is  all  that  teeming  mind, 

He,  too,  to  earth  must  go. 

And  beauty,  sweet,  and  all  the  fair 
That  sail  on  fortune's  sunniest  wave, 

The  poor,  with  him  of  countless  gold, 
Owner  of  all  that  mortals  crave, 

Alike  are  fated  soon  to  lie 

Down  in  the  silent  grave. 

Why,  then,  O,  insects  of  an  hour!3 

Why,  then,  with  struggling  toil,  contend 

For  honors  you  so  soon  must  yield, 

When  Death  shall  his  stern  summons  send? 

For  honor,  glory,  fortune,  wit, 

This  is,  to  all,  the  end. 

xThe  original  has  thouVt. 

1  Possibly  this  was  suggested  by  the  fact  that  Webster  was  to  deliver  an  address  at 
Jamaica  two  days  after  the  appearance  of  the  poem. 

*Cf.posty  I,  p.  47. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  15 

Think  not,  when  you  attain  your  wish, 

Content  will  banish  grief  and  care! 
High  though  you  stand,  though  round  you  thrown 

The  robes  that  rank  and  splendor  wear, 
A  secret  poison  in  the  heart 

Will  stick  and  rankle  there. 

In  night  go  view  the  solemn  stars,1 

Ever  in  majesty  the  same; 
Creation's  worlds:  how  poor  must  seem 

The  mightiest  honors  earth  can  name; 
And,  most  of  all,  this  silly  strife 

After  the  bubble,  fame! 


THE  COLUMBIAN'S  SONG2 

What  a  fair  and  happy  place 

Is  the  one  where  Freedom  lives, 
And  the  knowledge  that  our  arm  is  strong, 

A  haughty  bearing  gives! 
For  each  sun  that  gilds  the  east, 
When  at  dawn  it  first  doth  rise, 
Sets  at  night, 
Red  and  bright, 
On  a  people  where  the  prize 
Which  millions  in  the  battle  fight 
Have  sought  with  hope  forlorn, 
Grows  brighter  every  hour, 
In  strength,  and  grace,  and  power. 
And  the  sun  this  land  doth  leave 
Mightier  at  filmy  eve, 
Than  when  it  first  arose,  in  the  morn. 

Beat  the  sounding  note  of  joy! 

Let  it  echo  o'er  the  hills, 
Till  shore  and  forest  hear  the  pride, 

That  a  bondless  bosom  fills. 

1Cf.  post,  I,  p.  186. 

1  From  the  Long  Island  Democrat \  October  27,  1 840. 


1 6  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

And  on  the  plain  where  patriot  sires 

Rest  underneath  the  sod, 
Where  the  stern  resolve  for  liberty 
Was  writ  in  gushing  blood, 
Freemen  go, 
With  upright  brow, 
And  render  thanks  to  God. 

O,  my  soul  is  drunk  with  joy, 

And  my  inmost  heart  is  glad, 
To  think  my  country's  star  will  not 

Through  endless  ages  fade, 
That  on  its  upward  glorious  course 

Our  red-eyed  eagle  leaps, 
While  with  the  ever  moving  winds, 

Our  dawn-striped  banner  sweeps: 
That  here  at  length  is  found 

A  wide  extending  shore, 
Where  Freedom's  starry  gleam, 
Shines  with  unvarying  beam; 

Not  as  it  did  of  yore, 
With  flickering  flash,  when  Cesar  fell, 
Or  haughty  Gesler  heard  his  knell, 

Or  Stuart  rolled  in  gore. 

Nor  let  our  foes  presume 

That  this  heart-prized  union  band, 
Will  e'er  be  severed  by  the  stroke 

Of  a  fraternal  hand. 
Though  parties  sometimes  rage, 

And  Faction  rears  its  form, 
Its  jealous  eye,  its  scheming  brain, 

To  revel  in  the  storm : 
Yet  should  a  danger  threaten, 

Or  enemy  draw  nigh, 
Then  scattered  to  the  winds  of  heaven, 

All  civil  strife  would  fly; 
And  north  and  south,  and  east  and  west, 

Would  rally  at  the  cry — 
"Brethren,  arise!  to  battle  come, 
For  Truth,  for  Freedom,  and  for  Home, 

And  for  our  Fathers'  Memory!" 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  ijj 

THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  PRIDE1 

Once  on  his  star-gemmed,  dazzling  throne, 
Sat  an  all  bright  and  lofty  One, 

Unto  whom  God  had  given 
To  be  the  mightiest  Angel-Lord 

Within  the  range  of  Heaven; 
With  power  of  knowing  things  to  come, 
To  judge  o'er  man,  and  speak  his  doom. 

O,  he  was  pure !  the  fleecy  snow, 
Falling  through  air  to  earth  below, 

Was  not  more  undefiled: 
Sinless  he  was  as  the  wreathed  smile 

On  lip  of  sleeping  child. 
Haply,  more  like  the  snow  was  he, 
Freezing — with  all  its  purity. 

Upon  his  forehead  beamed  a  star, 
Bright  as  the  lamps  of  evening  are; 

And  his  pale  robe  was  worn 
About  him  with  a  look  of  pride, 

A  high,  majestic  scorn, 
Which  showed  he  felt  his  glorious  might, 
His  favor  with  the  Lord  of  Light. 

Years,  thus  he  swayed  the  things  of  earth — 
O'er  human  crime  and  human  worth — 

Haughty,  and  high,  and  stern; 
Nor  ever,  at  sweet  Mercy's  call, 

His  white  neck  would  turn; 
But  listening  not  to  frailty's  plea, 
Launched  forth  each  just  yet  stern  decree. 

iFrom  the  New  World  (New  York),  III,  p.  394,  December  18, 1841.  Although  "For 
the  New  World"  was  printed  above  this  poem,  it  is  certain  that  it  was  written,  if  not 
printed,  as  early  as  Whitman's  school-teaching  days,  for  one  of  his  pupils  refers  to  it, 
under  the  title  of  "The  Fallen  Angel,"  as  one  of  the  poems  that  Whitman  gave  his 
students  to  recite.  See  the  interview  with  Charles  A.  Roe  in  the  "Walt  Whitman 
Fellowship  Papers,"  No.  14,  where  Mr.  Roe  gives  proof  of  the  early  composition  by 
quoting  from  the  poem. 

Perhaps  the  poem  was  suggested  by  the  following  quotation  from  "Sir  W.  Raleigh" 
which  immediately  follows  it  upon  the  printed  page:  "Pity. — He  that  hath  pity  on  an- 
other man's  sorrow  shall  be  free  from  it  himself;  but  he  that  delighteth  in,  and  scorneth 
the  misery  of  another,  shall  one  time  or  other  fall  into  it  himself." 

These  verses  were  reprinted  in  the  Conservatory  February,  1902,  XII,  p.  189. 


1 8  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

At  last,  our  Father  who  above 

Sits  enthroned  with  Might,  and  Truth,  and  Love, 

And  knows  our  weakness  blind, 
Beheld  him — proud,  and  pitying  not 

The  errors  of  mankind; 
And  doomed  him,  for  a  punishment, 
To  be  forth  from  his  birth-place  sent. 

So  down  this  angel  from  on  high 
Came  from  his  sphere,  to  live  and  die 

As  mortal  men  have  done; 
That  he  might  know  the  tempting  snares 

Which  lure  each  human  son; 
And  dwell  as  all  on  earth  have  dwelt, 
And  feel  the  grief  we  all  have  felt. 

Then  he  knew  Guilt,  while  round  him  weaved 
Their  spells,  pale  Sickness,  Love  deceived, 

And  Fear,  and  Hate,  and  Wrath; 
And  all  the  blighting  ills  of  Fate 

Were  cast  athwart  his  path; 
He  stood  upon  the  grave's  dread  brink, 
And  felt  his  soul  with  terror  sink. 

He  learned  why  men  to  sin  gave  way, 
And  how  we  live  our  passing  day 

In  indolence  and  crime; 
But  yet  his  eye  with  awe  looked  on, 

To  see  in  all  his  prime 
That  godlike  thing,  the  human  mind, 
A  gem  in  black  decay  enshrined. 

Long  years  in  pennance  thus  he  spent, 
Until  the  Mighty  Parent  sent 

His  loveliest  messenger — 
Who  came  with  step  so  noiselessly, 

And  features  passing  fair; 
Death  was  his  name;  the  angel  heard 
The  call,  and  swift  to  heaven  he  soared. 

There  in  his  former  glory  placed, 
The  star  again  his  forehead  graced; 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  19 

But  never  more  that  brow 
Was  lifted  up  in  scorn  of  sin; 

His  wings  were  folded  now — 
But  not  in  pride:  his  port,  though  high, 
No  more  spoke  conscious  majesty. 

And  O,  what  double  light  now  shone 
About  that  pure  and  heavenly  one: 

For  in  the  clouds  which  made 
The  veil  around  his  seat  of  power, 

In  silvery  robes  arrayed, 
Hovered  the  seraph  Charity, 
And  Pity  with  her  melting  eye. 


AMBITION1 

One  day  an  obscure  youth,  a  wanderer, 
Known  but  to  few,  lay  musing  with  himself 
About  the  chances  of  his  future  life. 
In  that  youth's  heart,  there  dwelt  the  coal  Ambition, 
Burning  and  glowing;  and  he  asked  himself, 
"Shall  I,  in  time  to  come,  be  great  and  famed?'' 
Now  soon  an  answer  wild  and  mystical 
Seemed  to  sound  forth  from  out  the  depths  of  air; 
And  to  the  gazer's  eye  appeared  a  shape 
Like  one  as  of  a  cloud — and  thus  it  spoke: 

"0,  many  a  panting,  noble  heart 
Cherishes  in  its  deep  recess 
The  hope  to  win  renown  o'er  earth 
From  Glory's  prized  caress. 

"And  some  will  win  that  envied  goal, 

And  have  their  deeds  known  far  and  wide; 
And  some — by  far  the  most — will  sink 
Down  in  oblivion's  tide. 

*From  the  Brother  Jonathan  (New  York),  Vol.  I,  No.  5,  January  29,  184a.  This  is  an 
elaboration  of  "Fame's  Vanity"  (see  infra,  pp.  4-5).  All  the  changes  have  been  im- 
provements, while  the  opening  and  closing  lines  constitute  Whitman's  first,  and  almost 
only,  blank  verse. 

Cf.  post,  I,  pp.  230;  II,  pp.  125, 152. 


2o     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

"But  thou,  who  visions  bright  dost  cull 
From  the  imagination's  store, 
With  dreams,  such  as  the  youthful  dream 
Of  grandeur,  love,  and  power, 

"Fanciest  that  thou  shalt  build  a  name 
And  come  to  have  the  nations  know 
What  conscious  might  dwells  in  the  brain 
That  throbs  beneath  that  brow? 

"And  see  thick  countless  ranks  of  men 
Fix  upon  thee  their  reverent  gaze — 
And  listen  to  the  plaudits  loud 
To  thee  that  thousands  raise  ? 

"Weak,  childish  soul!  the  very  place 
That  pride  has  made  for  folly's  rest; 
What  thoughts,  with  vanity  all  rife, 
Fill  up  thy  heaving  breast ! 

"At  night,  go  view  the  solemn  stars 

Those  wheeling  worlds  through  time  the  same — 
How  puny  seem  the  widest  power, 
The  proudest  mortal  name ! 

"Think  too,  that  all,  lowly  and  rich, 
Dull  idiot  mind  and  teeming  sense, 
Alike  must  sleep  the  endless  sleep, 
A  hundred  seasons  hence. 


"So,  frail  one,  never  more  repine, 

Though  thou  livest  on  obscure,  unknown; 
Though  after  death  unsought  may  be 
Thy  markless  resting  stone." 

And  as  these  accents  dropped  in  the  youth's  ears, 
He  felt  him  sick  at  heart;  for  many  a  month 
His  fancy  had  amused  and  charmed  itself 
With  lofty  aspirations,  visions  fair 
Of  what  he  might  be.    And  it  pierced  him  sore 
To  have  his  airy  castles  thus  dashed  down. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  21 


THE  PLAY-GROUND1 

When  painfully  athwart  my  brain 
Dark  thoughts  come  crowding  on, 

And,  sick  of  worldly  hollowness, 
My  heart  feels  sad  and  lone — 

Then  out  upon  the  green  I  walk 

Just  ere  the  close  of  day, 
And  swift  I  ween  the  sight  I  view 

Clears  all  my  gloom  away. 

For  there  I  see  young  children — 

The  cheeriest  things  on  earth — 
I  see  them  play — I  hear  their  tones 

Of  loud  and  reckless  mirth. 

And  many  a  clear  and  flute-like  laugh 

Comes  ringing  through  the  air; 
And  many  a  roguish,  flashing  eye, 

And  rich  red  cheek,  are  there. 

O,  lovely,  happy  children ! 

I  am  with  you  in  my  soul; 
I  shout — I  strike  the  ball  with  you — 

With  you  I  race  and  roll. — 

Methinks  white-winged  angels, 

Floating  unseen  the  while, 
Hover  around  this  village  green, 

And  pleasantly  they  smile. 

O,  angels!  guard  these  children! 

Keep  grief  and  guilt  away: 
From  earthly  harm — from  evil  thoughts 

O,  shield  them  night  and  day! 

1Printed  as  an  "original"  poem  in  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  I,  1846  (during 
Whitman's  editorship  of  the  paper),  and  signed  "  W." 


22  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

ODE1 

To  be  sung  on  Fort  Greene;  4th  of  July,  1846 
Tune  "Star  Spangled  Banner" 
1. 

O,  God  of  Columbia !    O,  Shield  of  the  Free ! 

More  grateful  to  you  than  the  fames  of  old  story, 
Must  the  blood-bedewed  soil,  the  red  battle-ground,  be 

Where  our  fore-fathers  championed  America's  glory! 
Then  how  priceless  the  worth  of  the  sanctified  earth2 
We  are  standing  on  now.     Lo!  the  slopes  of  its  girth 

Where  the  martyrs  were  buried:  Nor  prayers,  tears,  or  stones, 

Marked  their  crumbled-in  coffins,  their  white  holy  bones! 

2. 

Say!  sons  of  Long-Island!  in  legend  or  song, 

Keep  ye  aught  of  its  record,  that  day  dark  and  cheerless — 
That  cruel  of  days — when,  hope  weak,  the  foe  strong, 

Was  seen  the  Serene  One — still  faithful,  still  fearless, 
Defending  the  worth  of  the  sanctified  earth 
We  are  standing  on  now,  etc. 


Oh,  yes !    be  the  answer.     In  memory  still 

We  have  placed  in  our  hearts,  and  embalmed  there  forever! 
The  battle,  the  prison-ship,  martyrs,  and  hill, 

— O,  may  it  be  preserved  till  those  hearts  death  shall  sever! 
For  how  priceless  the  worth,  &c. 

1  From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  July  2,  1 846.  This  song  was  reprinted  in  the  Daily 
Eagle]on  June  15, 1900,  and  in  the  Eagle  s  "Walt  Whitman  Centenary  Number,"  May  31, 
1919;  it  was  also  used  as  a  motto  in  Peter  Ross's  "A  History  of  Long  Island"  (Chicago 
and  New  York,  1902),  where  it  is  given  the  title  "Sons  of  Long  Island,"  and  is  credited 
to  "Walt  Whitman."  The  poem  was  likewise  reprinted  in  the  New  York  Times  Maga- 
zine, September  16, 1916,  and  in  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  I,  pp.  75-76. 

The  song  was  duly  sung  in  the  patriotic  demonstration  at  Fort  Greene  on  the  Fourth 
of  July.  (See  also  post,  II,  p.  255,  note.)  Whitman's  interest  in  the  prison-ship  martyrs 
and  in  their  burial-ground  appears  frequently  in  his  writings,  both  prose  and  verse. 
Cf.  "  Brooklyniana,"  Chapter  $,post,  II,  pp.  236-245,  266-267;  " The  Centenarian's  Story" 
and  "The  Wallabout  Martyrs"  (in  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  II,  58,  and  II,  296,  respectively). 

^he  Eagle  text  has  a  comma  after  earth. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  23 


And  shall  not  the  years,  as  they  sweep  o'er  and  o'er, 
Shall  they  not,  even  here,  bring  the  children  of  ages — 

To  exult  as  their  fathers  exulted  before, 

In  the  freedom  achieved  by  our  ancestral  sages? 

And  the  prayer  rise  to  heaven,  with  pure  gratitude  given 

And  the  sky  by  the  thunder  of  cannon  be  riven? 
Yea!  Yea!  let  the  echo  responsively  roll 
The  echo  that  starts  from  the  patriot's  soul! 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY,  1848 « 

A  morning  fair:  A  noontide  dubious: 
Then  gathering  clouds  obscure  the  Sun: 
Then  rain  in  torrents  falls,  subsiding  soon 
Into  a  gentle  dropping.     By  eve  the  sun 
Sinks  into  a  cloudless  west;  and  a  mild  breeze 
With  pleasant  motion  stirs  the  atmosphere. 
Next  in  the  blue  vault  above  do  moon  and  stars 
Vie  in  bright  emulation  to  destroy  the  gloom  of  night. 

Such  was  our  New  Year's  Day,  and  eventide! 

Was  it  not  an  index  of  each  passing  Year, 

Within  whose  seasons  circumstance  and  change 

Ever  with  Hope  and  Happiness  war? 

One  now  superior:  anon  the  other: 

And  as  succeeds  pleasure  or  pain  or  joy  or  sorrow, 

Clouding  the  firmament  of  each  heart, 

Raindrops  of  melancholy  dim  the  eyes, 

To  shortly  dry,  hiding  the  Past  and  Present 

'Neath  bright  starry  thoughts — 

Suggestive  of  a  Future  aye  serene. 

1From  the  Home  Journal  (N.  Y.),  March  30,  1892,  where  it  is  preceded  by  the  follow- 
ing explanation:  "The  following  verses  were  written  by  Walt  Whitman  in  1848,  in  the 
album  of  a  lady,  from  which  a  friend  of  the  Home  Journal  copied  them.  They  do  not 
appear  in  any  of  the  poet's  published  collections,  but  are  interesting  as  a  specimen  of  his 
early  essays  in  verse." 

The  poem  was  prophetic,  so  far  as  Whitman  was  concerned,  for  within  the  month 
he  lost  his  position  as  editor  of  the  Brooklyn  Eagle,  but  immediately  found  an  opening 
in  New  Orleans,  whither  he  took  his  famous  journey  in  February. 


24  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Day  of  a  coming  year  promising  change, 

Yet  full  of  promises,  we  need  but  watch 

And  pray  for  guardianship  to  come 

Over  caprices  and  all  foolish  ways ! 

So  shall  bright  sunshine  in  advancing  days 

And  starry  invitations  lead  to  Heavenly  praise. 


ISLE  OF  LA  BELLE  RIVIERE » 

Bride  of  the  swart  Ohio; 
Nude,  yet  fair  to  look  upon, 
Clothed  only  with  the  leaf, 
As  was  innocent  Eve  of  Eden. 
The  son  of  grim  old  Alleghany, 
And  white-breasted  Monongahela 
Is  wedded  to  thee,  and  it  is  well. 

»From  the  Cincinnati  Post,  April  30,  1892.  The  poem  is  explained  in  the  Post  as 
follows: 

"  Parkersburg,  W.  Va. — April  30. — (Special) — It  is  well  known  that  the  late  Walt 
Whitman  made  a  pilgrimage  down  the  Ohio  Valley  in  the  year  1849;  tftat  he  stopped  on 
Blennerhassett  Island  for  a  brief  season  (a  spot  almost  world-famous  in  song,  story  and 
history  as  the  home  of  the  exiled  Blennerhassett,  and  as  the  scene  of  Aaron  Burr's 
machinations  for  the  destruction  of  this  Republic);  that  he  drank  from  the  historic  old 
well  of  Blennerhassett,  and  that  he  retained  pleasant  recollections  of  his  pilgrimage  long 
afterward. 

"  But  it  is  not  so  well-known,  in  fact,  it  is  scarcely  known  at  all,  that  he  composed  a 
characteristic  poem  while  on  the  visit  to  the  old  island  which  appears  in  the  Post  for  the 
first  time.  The  original  draft  of  the  poem  was  left  at  the  home  of  Whitman's  enter- 
tainer, old  Farmer  Johnson,  who  then  lived  on  the  island.  The  poet  took  a  copy,  and 
the  Post  representative  has  a  copy  of  the  original,  so  that  these  three  are  the  only  known 
copies  of  the  poem  in  existence,  if  indeed  the  copy  which  Whitman  took  exists  anywhere. 

"The  original  draft  of  the  poem  has  lain  unnoticed  all  these  years  between  the  leaves 
of  an  old  Bible.  It  is  written  in  the  irregular,  scrawling  hand  of  the  much-abused  poet 
on  a  sheet  of  old-fashioned  foolscap  paper.  It  is  just  such  a  piece  of  venerable  chiro- 
graphy  as  would  set  a  Browning  student  clean  daft  and  throw  a  Concord  blue-stocking 
into  a  fit  of  hysterics. 

"The  death  of  Whitman  recalled  the  fact  of  his  visit  to  the  island,  and  the  present 
proprietor  of  Blennerhassett,  Mr.  Amos  Gordon,  having  heard  something  about  Whit- 
man and  his  poem  on  the  island,  began  a  search  for  it,  and  finally  found  it.  As  an  old 
friend,  the  Post  representative  was  the  only  person  permitted  to  copy  it,  and  here  it  is." 

But  Whitman's  famous  pilgrimage  was  made  in  1848,  not  1849.  If  therefore  the  date 
("  aged  30")  be  not  a  mere  reckoning  by  some  misinformed  person,  but  Whitman's  own,  it 
is  likely  that  this  poem  gives  us  a  hint  as  to  the  date  of  one  of  Whitman's  little-known 
visits  to  the  South.  (Cf.  post,  II,  p.  59.)  He  would  not  have  made  a  mistake  of  more 
than  a  year  in  his  own  age  at  the  time.  The  imagery  of  the  poem  suggests  the  autumn, 
and  in  September,  1849,  Whitman  gave  up  the  Freeman,  which  he  had  been  editing  for 
about  a  year,  and  so  was  free  to  travel.  The  conclusion  that  this  poem  was  actually 
written  when  Whitman  was  thirty  (1849-50)  is  strengthened  by  the  fact  that  no  mention 
is  made  of  the  Island  in  the  account  of  his  first  journey  down  the  Ohio.  (See  "  Excerpts  of 
a  Traveller's  Note  Book,"^>oj/,  II,  pp.  181-190.) 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  25 

His  tawny  thighs  cover  thee 

In  the  vernal  time  of  spring, 

And  lo!  in  the  autumn  is  the  fruitage. 

Virgin  of  Nature,  the  holy  spirit  of  the  waters  enshrouds  thee 

And  thou  art  pregnant  with  the  fruits 

Of  the  field  and  the  vine. 

But  like  the  Sabine  maid  of  old, 

The  lust  of  man  hath  ravished  thee 

And  compelled  thee  to  pay  tribute  to  the 

Carnal  wants  of  earth. 

Truth  and  romance  make  up  thy 

Strange,  eventful,  history, 

From  the  cycle  of  the  red  man, 

Who  bowed  at  thy  shrine  and  worshipped  thee, 

To  the  dark  days  of  that  traitor1 

Who  linked  thine  innocent  name  to  infamy. 

Farewell,  Queen  of  the  waters, 

I  have  slept  upon  thy  breast  in  the  innocence  of  a  babe, 

But  now  I  leave  thee 

To  the  embraces  of  thine  acknowledged  lord. 

At  Blennerhassett — Aged  30. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS2 

"And  one  shall  say  unto  him,  What  are  these  wounds  in  thy 
hands?  Then  he  shall  answer,  Those  with  which  I  was  wounded 
in  the  house  of  my  friends." — Zechariah,  xiii.  6. 

If  thou  art  balked,  O  Freedom, 
The  victory  is  not  to  thy  manlier  foes; 
From  the  house  of  friends  comes  the  death  stab. 

Vaunters  of  the  Free, 

1  Aaron  Burr. 

*From  the  New  York  Tribune,  June  14,  1850. 

Whitman  preserved  this  poem  in  the  "Collect"  under  the  title  "Wounded  in  the  House 
of  Friends."  But  since  about  one  third  of  the  original  version  was  rejected  in  the  re- 
vision, it  is  deemed  useful  to  include  the  complete  original  poem  here. 

The  Brooklyn  Daily  Advertizer,  the  Whig  daily  with  which  Whitman  had  an  anony- 
mous connection  during  the  summer  of  1850  (see post,  I,  p.  234,  note)  in  quoting  the  third 
stanza  of  this  poem,  in  order  to  confute  Democrats  generally,  gives  the  composition  a 
local  and  a  personal  interpretation: 

"When  our  friends  the  locofocos  fall  out,  they  occasionally  amuse   themselves  by 


26  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Why  do  you  strain  your  lungs  off  southward? 

Why  be  going  to  Alabama? 

Sweep  first  before  your  own  door; 

Stop  this  squalling  and  this  scorn 

Over  the  mote  there  in  the  distance; 

Look  well  to  your  own  eye,  Massachusetts — 

Yours,  New- York  and  Pennsylvania; 

— I  would  say  yours  too,  Michigan, 

But  all  the  salve,  all  the  surgery 

Of  the  great  wide  world  were  powerless  there. 

Virginia,  mother  of  greatness, 
Blush  not  for  being  also  the  mother  of  slaves. 
You  might  have  borne  deeper  slaves — 
Doughfaces,  Crawlers,  Lice  of  Humanity — 
Terrific  screamers  of  Freedom, 
Who  roar  and  bawl,  and  get  hot  i'  the  face, 
But,  were  they  not  incapable  of  august  crime, 
Would  quelch  the  hopes  of  ages  for  a  drink — 
Muck-worms,  creeping  flat  to  the  ground, 
A  dollar  dearer  to  them  than  Christ's  blessing; 
All  loves,  all  hopes,  less  than  the  thought  of  gain, 
In  life  walking  in  that  as  in  a  shroud: 
Men  whom  the  throes  of  heroes, 
Great  deeds  at  which  the  gods  might  stand  appalled 
The  shriek  of  a  drowned  world,  the  appeal  of  women, 


drawing  portraits  of  each  other.  The  schism  of  the  Hunkers  and  Barnburners  has  been 
especially  prolific  of  these  interesting  specimens  of  descriptive  literature.  The  fun 
of  it  is,  that  a  great  deal  of  what  each  side  says  about  the  other  is  true. 

"Here,  now,  is  a  specimen  of  the  way  one  of  the  young  democracy,  Master  Walter 
Whitman,  lays  it  on  to  the  members  of  '  the  party'  whom  he  has  had  the  pleasure  of 
knowing: — Master  Walter  has  evidently  a  very  poor  opinion  of  his  old  cronies;  but 
who  can  wonder  at  that,  after  he  was  in  the  Brooklyn  Eagle  so  long,  and  saw  the  opera- 
tions of  the  Brooklyn  'democracy'?  See  now  how  he  talks  to  'em;  we  extract  from  a 
queer  little  poem  in  one  of  the  New  York  papers.  [Here  followed  the  third  stanza 
above.] 

"Well,  upon  the  whole,  and  considering  the  opportunities  Master  Walter  has  'en- 
joyed' for  taking  a  full  and  fair  survey  of  the  cautious  old  leader  of '  the  party'  it  is  every 
way  likely  that  he  has  hit  the  nail  very  near  the  head.  But  then,  Master  W.,  it  is  very 
naughty  of  you  to  expose  the  brethren — very  naughty."     (June  22,  1850.) 

Whitman  and  Henry  A.  Lees,  the  editor  of  the  Advertizer,  had  often  locked  horns  and 
even  indulged  in  personal  remarks  in  their  respective  papers,  but  Lees  never  lost  an  op- 
portunity to  play  Whitman  off  against  the  conservative  Democrats,  and  professed  a 
liking  for  the  man.  He  may  have  known  the  author's  own  reasons  for  the  composition  of 
this  poem.  Perhaps  Whitman  had  in  mind  the  turn  of  fortune  which  soon  transferred 
the  Free-soil  paper  which  he  had  started  (the  Freeman)  into  a  Hunker  journal.  But  the 
poem  itself  seems  to  imply  a  somewhat  broader  view  of  the  whole  slavery  situation. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  27 

The  exulting  laugh  of  untied  empires, 
Would  touch  them  never  in  the  heart, 
But  only  in  the  pocket. 

Hot-headed  Carolina, 
Well  may  you  curl  your  lip; 
With  all  your  bondsmen,  bless  the  destiny 
Which  brings  you  no  such  breed  as  this. 

Arise,  young  North! 
Our  elder  blood  flows  in  the  veins  of  cowards — 
The  gray-haired  sneak,  the  blanched  poltroon, 
The  feigned  or  real  shiverer  at  tongues 
That  nursing  babes  need  hardly  cry  the  less  for — 
Are  they  to  be  our  tokens  always? 

Fight  on,  band  braver  than  warriors, 
Faithful  and  few  as  Spartans; 
But  fear  not  most  the  angriest,  loudest,  malice — 
Fear  most  the  still  and  forked  fang 
That  starts  from  the  grass  at  your  feet. 


RESURGEMUS1 

Suddenly,  out  of  its  state2  and  drowsy  air,3  the  air3  of  slaves, 
Like  lightning  Europe  le'pt  forth, 
Sombre,  superb  and  terrible, 
As  Ahimoth,  brother  of  Death. 

The  1855  Version 

SUDDENLY  out  of  its  stale  and  drowsy  lair,  the  lair  of  slaves, 

Like  lightning  Europe  le'pt  forth     .     .     .     half  startled  at  itself, 

Its  feet  upon  the  ashes  and  the  rags.     ...     Its  hands  tight  on  the  throats  of  kings, 

^rom  the  New  York  Daily  Tribune,  June  21,  1850.  Whitman  preserved  the  poem 
in  altered  form,  in  the  1855  edition  of  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  pp.  87-88.  Here  it  had  no 
title,  but  in  the  1917  edition  (II,  pp.  27-29),  it  bears  the  title  "Europe,  the  72d  and  73d 
Years  of  These  States,"  as  in  editions  since  i860.  For  variorum  readings  and  alteration 
in  title  see  the  1917  edition,  III,  pp.  192-193.  This  is  the  only  poem  in  the  1855  edition 
known  to  have  been  previously  published.  A  comparison  of  its  1850  version  with 
that  of  1855,  therefore,  is  of  great  importance.  That  the  reader  may  the  more  easily 
make  this  comparison  I  quote  the  1855  version  here  (see  also  comment  in  the  Critical 
Introduction,  p.  xci. 

*  Apparently  a  typographical  error  for  stale.     Cf.  1855  version  and  all  later  versions. 

•Apparently  a  typographical  error  for  lair.  Cf.  1855  version  and  all  later  versions; 
also  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  207. 


28  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

God,  'twas  delicious! 

That  brief,  tight,  glorious  grip 

Upon  the  throats  of  kings. 

You  liars  paid  to  defile  the  People, 

Mark  you  now: 

Not  for  numberless  agonies,  murders,  lusts, 

For  court  thieving  in  its  manifold  mean  forms, 

Worming  from  his  simplicity  the  poor  man's  wages; 

For  many  a  promise  sworn  by  royal  lips 

And  broken,  and  laughed  at  in  the  breaking; 

Then,  in  their  power,  not  for  all  these, 

Did  a  blow  fall  in  personal  revenge, 

Or  a  hair  draggle  in  blood: 

The  People  scorned  the  ferocity  of  kings. 

But  the  sweetness  of  mercy  brewed  bitter  destruction, 

And  frightened  rulers  come  back: 

Each  comes  in  state,  with  his  train, 

Hangman,  priest,  and  tax-gatherer, 

Soldier,  lawyer,  and  sycophant; 

As  appalling  procession  of  locusts, 

And  the  king  struts  grandly  again. 

Yet  behind  all,  lo,  a  Shape 

Vague  as  the  night,  draped  interminably, 

Head,  front  and  form,  in  scarlet  folds, 


O  hope  and  faith!    O  aching  close  of  lives!    O  many  a  sickened  heart! 
Turn  back  unto  this  day,  and  make  yourselves  afresh. 

And  you,  paid  to  defile  the  People    .     .     .     you  liars  mark: 

Not  for  numberless  agonies,  murders,  lusts, 

For  court  thieving  in  its  manifold  mean  forms, 

Worming  from  his  simplicity  the  poor  man's  wages; 

For  many  a  promise  sworn  by  royal  lips,  And  broken,  and  laughed  at  in  the  breaking, 

Then  in  their  power  not  for  all  these  did  the  blows  strike  of  personal  revenge    ...    or 

the  heads  of  the  noble  fall; 
The  People  scorn  the  ferocity  of  kings. 

But  the  sweetness  of  mercy  brewed  bitter  destruction,  and  the  frightened  rulers  come 

back: 
Each  comes  in  state  with  his  train     .     .    .     hangman,  priest  and  tax-gatherer    .     .     . 

soldier,  lawyer,  jailer  and  sycophant. 

Yet  behind  all,  lo,  a  Shape, 

Vague  as  the  night,  draped  interminably,  head  front  and  form  in  scarlet  folds, 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  29 

Whose  face  and  eyes  none  may  see, 
Out  of  its  robes  only  this, 
The  red  robes,  lifted  by  the  arm, 
One  finger  pointed  high  over  the  top, 
Like  the  head  of  a  snake  appears. 

Meanwhile,  corpses  lie  in  new-made  graves, 

Bloody  corpses  of  young  men; 

The  rope  of  the  gibbet  hangs  heavily, 

The  bullets  of  tyrants  are  flying, 

The  creatures  of  power  laugh  aloud: 

And  all  these  things  bear  fruits,  and  they  are  good. 

Those  corpses  of  young  men, 

Those  martyrs  that  hang  from  the  gibbets, 

Those  hearts  pierced  by  the  grey  lead, 

Cold  and  motionless  as  they  seem, 

Live  elsewhere  with  undying  vitality; 

They  live  in  other  young  men,  O,  kings, 

They  live  in  brothers,  again  ready  to  defy  you; 

They  were  purified  by  death, 

They  were  taught  and  exalted. 

Not  a  grave  of  those  slaughtered  ones, 

But  is  growing  its  seed  of  freedom, 

In  its  turn  to  bear  seed, 

Which  the  winds  shall  carry  afar  and  resow, 

And  the  rain  nourish. 


Whose  face  and  eyes  none  may  see, 

Out  of  its  robes  only  this     .     .     .     the  red  robes,  lifted  by  the  arm, 

One  finger  pointed  high  over  the  top,  like  the  head  of  a  snake  appears. 

Meanwhile  corpses  lie  in  new-made  graves     .     .     .     bloody  corpses  of  young  men: 
The  rope  of  the  gibbet  hangs  heavily     .     .     .     the  bullets  of  princes  are  flying     .     .     . 

the  creatures  of  power  laugh  aloud, 
And  all  these  things  bear  fruits    .     .     .     and  they  are  good. 

Those  corpses  of  young  men, 

Those  martyrs  that  hang  from  the  gibbets    .     .     .     those  hearts  pierced  by  the  gray 

lead, 
Cold  and  motionless  as  they  seem     .     .     .     live  elsewhere  with  unslaughter'd  vitality. 

They  live  in  other  young  men,  O  kings, 

They  live  in  brothers,  again  ready  to  defy  you: 

They  were  purified  by  death.     .     .     .    They  were  taught  and  exalted. 

Not  a  grave  of  the  murdered  for  freedom  but  grows  seed  for  freedom     .     .     .     in  its 

turn  to  bear  seed, 
Which  the  winds  carry  afar  and  re-sow,  and  the  rains  and  the  snows  nourish. 


30  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Not  a  disembodied  spirit 
Can  the  weapon  of  tyrants  let  loose, 
But  it  shall  stalk  invisibly  over  the  earth. 
Whispering,  counselling,  cautioning. 

Liberty,  let  others  despair  of  thee,1 

But  I  will  never  despair  of  thee: 

Is  the  house  shut?     Is  the  master  away? 

Nevertheless,  be  ready,  be  not  weary  of  watching, 

He  will  surely  return;  his  messengers  come  anon.2 


[On  Duluth,  Minnesota]3 

The  nations  hear  thy  message; 
A  fateful  word;  oh,  momentous 
Audition !    The  murmur  of  waves 
Bearing  heavy  freighted  argosies;  the  sigh 
Of  gently  stirring  life  in  the  birth-beds 
Of  not  o'er  distant  grain  fields;  the 


Not  a  disembodied  spirit  can  the  weapons  of  tyrants  let  loose, 

But  it  stalks  invisibly  over  the  earth    .     .     .    whispering  counseling  cautioning. 

Liberty  let  others  despair  of  you    .     .     .     I  never  despair  of  you. 

Is  the  house  shut?     Is  the  master  away? 

Nevertheless  be  ready    .     .     .     be  not  weary  of  watching, 

He  will  soon  return     ...     his  messengers  come  anon. 

1This/^  giving  place  to  the  you  of  the  1855  and  later  editions  is  an  illustration  of 
Whitman's  "getting  rid  of  the  stock  poetical  touches"  which  appeared  in  the  first  drafts 
of  his  "Leaves  of  Grass."  Observe  also  the  omission  of  the  reference  to  Ahimoth  (I.4) 
in  the  1855  edition. 

iCf.  "Matthew,"  xxiv:  48-50. 

3 From  the  New  Orleans  Item,  April  2,  1892,  where  it  is  prefaced  by  the  following 
dispatch: 

"Duluth,  Minn.  April  4. — (Special). — A  fragment  of  a  poem  by  the  late  Walt 
Whitman,  written  while  in  this  city  a  year  ago,  is  published  here  to-day.  The  good 
gray  poet  was  quite  impressed  with  Duluth,  whose  interests  were  shown  him  by  a 
friend,  and  after  leaving  he  sent  his  friend  the  following,  which  has  remained  unprinted 
until  now." 

But  the  only  time  that  Whitman  is  known  to  have  been  at  all  near  Duluth  was  on  the 
return  from  his  1848  visit  to  New  Orleans.  If  this  poem  were  written  by  him  then,  it 
would  be  a  companion,  though  a  poor  one,  to  "Isle  of  La  Belle  Riviere."  It  is  possible 
that  the  outrageous  division  of  the  lines  is  due  to  a  careless  reading  of  the  manuscript.  It 
is  more  likely  that  the  whole  is  a  puerile  attempt  at  burlesque.  It  is  given  here  only 
because,  since  it  is  ascribed  to  Whitman  on  its  first  publication,  the  reader  should  judge 
for  himself  how  authentic  the  authorship  is  likely  to  be. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  31 

Solemn  plaint  of  pines  whose  limbs 

Quite  feel  the  bite  of  men's 

Omnivorous  axe;  the  roar, 

Like  old  Enceladus's  of  furnaces  volcanic 

And  Hell-like;  the  thunderous  and 

Reverberant  iteration 

Of  hammers  striking  the  uncomplaining  anvil. 

These  are  all  in  thy  voice. 

To  what  end  ?     Because  thou  singest 

Of  empire  and  the  great  To  Come, 

General  good,  Democracy,  the 

Return  at  length  to  things  primeval, 

And,  therefore,  real  and  true, 

And  worth  returning  unto. 

Then  sing,  Duluth,  thy 

Song,  and  listen, 

Nations! 

Or  it  will  repent  ye, 

When  the  bridegroom  cometh. 


SHORTER  PROSE  PUBLICATIONS 

EFFECTS  OF  LIGHTNING1 

At  Northport,  on  Sunday,  28th  ultimo,  an  unfortunate  and 
somewhat  singular  accident  occurred  from  the  lightning.  Mr. 
Abraham  Miller,  of  that  place,  had  been  in  the  fields,  engaged 
in  some  farm  work,  and  was  returning  home,  as  a  storm  com- 
menced in  the  afternoon,  carrying  in  his  hands  a  pitchfork.  A 
friend  of  his  who  was  with  him  advised  him  not  to  carry  it,  as  he 
considered  it  dangerous.  Mr.  Miller,  however,  did  not  put 
down  the  fork,  but  continued  walking  with  it;  he  had  gone 
some  distance  on  his  way  home,  and  had  just  put  up  the  bars 
of  a  fence  he  passed  through  when  a  violent  clap  of  thunder 
occurred,  followed  by  a  sharp  flash.  The  acquaintance  of  Mr. 
Miller  was  slightly  stunned  by  the  shock  and  turning  round  to 
look  at  his  companion  he  saw  him  lying  on  his  face  motionless. 
He  went  to  him  and  found  him  dead,  the  lightning,  having 
been  attracted  by  the  steel  tines  of  the  fork,  had  torn  his  hand 
slightly,  and  killed  him  on  the  instant. 


SUN-DOWN  PAPERS— [No.  $]2 

From  the  Desk  of  a  Schoolmaster 

Amidst  the  universal  excitement  which  appears  to  have  been 
created  of  late  years,  with  regard  to  the  evils  created  by  ardent 

*From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  August  8,  1838,  where  it  is  copied  from  the  Long 
Islander y  then  being  edited  by  Whitman.  (See  infra,  I,  p.  1,  note.)  This  is  the  earliest 
extant  prose  from  Whitman's  pen. 

3  From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  April  28, 1 840,  where  it  is  copied  from  the  Hempstead 
Inquirer.     This  paper  is  unnumbered,  but  apparently  should  be  Number  5  of  the  series. 

Whitman's  authorship  of  these  sketches  is  established  by  both  internal  and  external 
evidence.  The  internal  evidence  consists  not  only  in  the  celebration  of  ideas  which  Whit- 
man was  to  make  famous  later  on  but  in  the  utilization  of  practically  a  whole  sentence, 

32 


POETRY  AND  PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN     33 

spirits,  it  seems  to  have  been  forgotten  that  there  are  other, 
and  almost  as  injurious,  kinds  of  intemperance.  The  practice 
of  using  tobacco,  in  any  shape,  is  one  of  these.  Not  only  does 
the  custom  contribute  to  the  discomfort  of  company,  but  it  is, 
in  itself,  a  fruitful  source  of  ill  to  those  that  use  it. 

This  is  sufficiently  proved  by  the  fact,  that  the  first  taste  of  it 
almost  invariably  causes  sickness  and  nausea.  Our  young  men, 
however,  entertain  an  idea  that  there  is  something  very  manly 
in  having  a  segar  stuck  in  the  corner  of  their  lips;  or  a  round 
ball  of  sickening  weed  that  a  dog  would  not  touch,  rolling  in 
their  mouths.  Boys,  like  monkeys,  are  generally  ambitious 
of  apeing  their  superiors;  and  many  a  young  fellow  has  volun- 
tarily undergone  hours  of  misery  in  learning  how  to  smoke  or 
chew,  in  order  that  he  might  perfectly  acquire  this  noble  accom- 
plishment, and  assume  the  attributes  of  manhood.  There  is 
something  very  majestic,  truly,  in  seeing  a  human  being  with  a 
long  roll  of  black  leaves  held  between  his  teeth,  and  projecting 
eight  or  ten  inches  before  him.  It  has  been  said  by  some  satiri- 
cal individual,  that  a  fishing-rod  is  a  thing  with  a  hook  at  one 
extremity,  and  a  fool  at  the  other:  it  may  with  much  more  truth 
be  affirmed,  that  a  segar,  generally  has  a  smoky  fire  at  one  end, 
&  a  conceited  spark  at  the  other.  Weak,  and  silly  indeed,  must 
be  that  youth,  who  thinks  that  these  are  the  characteristics  of 
manhood,  they  are  much  oftener  the  proofs  of  empty  brains,  and 
a  loaferish  disposition.1 


the  first  in  "Sun-Down  Paper,  No.  6,"  in  a  signed  Whitman  sketch,  "The  Little  Sleigh- 
ers"  (see  the  last  paragraph  on  I,  p.  91,  post).  The  external  evidence  is  to  be  found  in  an 
editorial  by  E.  B.  Spooner  (son  of  the  Aldin  Spooner  for  whom  Whitman  had  as  a  boy  set 
type  on  the  Long  Island  Star)  in  the  Star  (now  the  Brooklyn  Evening  Star)  for  July  30, 
1 841,  anent  Whitman's  speech  in  the  Park  and  his  apparent  entry  into  politics:  "He 
[Maj.  Davezac]  was  followed  by  Walter  Whitman,  of  Long  Island.  Heaven  save  the 
mark.  Shall  not  we  have  some  more  small  scraps  from  the  desk  of  a  school-master?  We 
feel  ourselves  bound  to  look  after  Long  Islanders,  and  this  is  a  great  joke!  Come  back 
young  man,  come  back  and  finish  your  apprenticeship.  Teaching  very  small  children 
may  be  an  easy  life,  but  teaching  those  big  children  of  Tammany  Hall  may  look  big 
but  it  seems  very  farcical."  It  will  be  observed  that  this  comes  just  after  the  last 
"Sun-Down  Paper"  was  published,  and  from  a  man  who  knew  Whitman  well.  It  is  also 
known,  through  the  family  of  James  J.  Brenton,  who  owned  and  edited  the  Long  Island 
Democraty  that  Whitman  was  a  valued  contributor  to  the  pages  of  the  paper,  which 
could  hardly  have  been  said  of  his  verse  alone.     (See  Introduction,  p.  xxxiii,  note.) 

Diligent  search  has  been  made  for  the  missing  numbers  of  the  series,  but  I  have  been 
unable  to  locate  a  file  of  the  Hempstead  Inquirer  that  goes  back  to  the  required  date,  and 
even  the  various  files  of  the  Long  Island  Democrat  and  the  Long  Island  Farmer  that  I 
have  examined  are  somewhat  incomplete. 

iQf.post,!,  pp.  44-46. 


34  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Custom  may,  and  does,  enable  some  people  to  become  so 
habituated  to  these  things,  that  they  produce  no  very  evident 
evil.  But  it  is  still  not  less  the  cause  [case]  that  they  do  produce 
evil.  They  weaken  the  strength  of  the  nervous  system;  they  al- 
ternately excite  &  depress  the  powers  of  the  brain;  and  they  act 
with  constant  and  insidious  attacks  upon  the  health.  There 
may  be  instances  where  these  effects  do  not  follow;  for  there 
are  some  men  who  have  such  horselike  constitutions,  that  if 
they  were  to  eat  the  shovel  and  tongs,  these  would  not  sit  heav- 
ily on  their  stomachs;  nor  would  a  blacksmith's  hammer  be 
able  to  shatter  their  nerves.  These  are  exceptions  to  the  cor- 
rectness of  my  assertions  with  regard  to  the  evils  of  tobacco;  but 
facts  and  the  experience  of  medical  men  will  bear  me  out  in  say- 
ing that  they  are  generally  true. 

The  excessive  use  of  tea  and  coffee,  too,  is  a  species  of  intem- 
perance much  to  be  condemned.  It  is  astonishing  that  people 
can  consent  to  take  twice  a  day,  three  or  four  gills  of  a  hot  liquid 
into  their  stomachs  to  destroy  its  tone  and  impair  its  legitimate 
powers.  And  not  only  this;  for  it  would  not  be  so  bad  if  it  was 
pure  water  merely;  but  it  must  be  infused  with  a  bitter  and 
unpleasant  shrub — and  to  crown  the  climax  of  absurdity,  it  must 
have  a  lump  of  sugar  to  take  away  the  bitter  taste,  and  a  spoon- 
ful of  milk  to  destroy  its  insupportable  hotness. 

Into  what  ridiculous  lengths  can  people  be  led  by  fashion! 
Hot  drinks  of  this  kind  are  fatal  to  the  teeth,  deleterious  to 
physical  strength,  the  cause  of  impure  blood,  and  the  means  of 
producing  many  a  head  ache,  many  a  pale  face,  and  many  an 
emaciated  body. 

In  conclusion,  I  would  remark,  that  I  am  not  one  of  those 
who  would  deny  people  any  sensual  delights  because  I  think  it 
a  sin  to  be  happy  and  to  take  pleasure  in  the  good  things  of  this 
life.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  disposed  to  allow  every  rational 
gratification,  both  to  the  palate,  and  the  other  senses.  I  con- 
sider that  we  were  placed  here  [by  the  Creator]  for  two  beneficent 
purposes;  to  fulfil  our  duty,  and  to  enjoy  the  almost  innumerable 
comforts  and  delights  which  he  has  provided  for  us.1  But  the 
pernicious  things  I  have  mentioned  are  not  worthy  the  name  of 
comforts:  long  habit  may  have  caused  them  to  be  regarded  as 
such  by  some  people;  but  nature,  and  experience,  and  enlight- 
ened reason,  all  go  to  prove  their  injurious  effect. 
*Cf.postt  II,  p.  146. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  3s 

SUN-DOWN  PAPERS— [No.  6]1 
From  the  desk  of  a  Schoolmaster 

I  know  not  a  prettier  custom  than  that,  said  to  have  been 
prevalent  among  several  nations,  of  strewing  the  coffins  of  young 
people  with  flowers.  When  persons  of  middle  or  old  age  die,  the 
work  of  the  Pale  Mower  seems  connected  with  something  of 
roughness:  it  creates  what  I  would  call  a  coarse  kind  of  grief, 
often  overpowering,  and  always  without  any  aid  from  very  refined 
associations.  But  when  we  see  an  infant  laid  away  to  a  quiet 
slumber  in  the  bosom  of  the  great  mother  of  men — when  we  be- 
hold a  young  girl  departed  to  those  mysterious  regions  which 
we  are  fond  of  believing  to  be  filled  with  resplendent  innocence 
and  beauty — or  when  we  look  on  a  boy,  shrouded  in  the  cere- 
ments of  death,  his  hair  parted  on  his  forehead,  and  those  feat- 
ures and  limbs  that  we  have  known  as  so  joyous  and  active 
now  without  motion,  and  all  prepared  for  that  fearful  ceremony, 
the  burying — then  our  painful  sensations  have  much  about  them 
of  gentleness  and  poetic  melancholy.  In  the  last  cases,  our  grief 
is  not  gross,  but  delicate,  like  the  just  perceptible  fragrance  of 
the  lily:  in  the  former,  it  more  resembles  the  scent  of  a  thick 
and  full  blown  rose. 

One  reason,  probably,  of  this  different  mode  of  view  is  this: 
we  are  well  aware  that  men  who  have  lived  a  length  of  time  in 
the  world,  must  have  committed  many  little  meannesses — must 
have  done  wrong  on  various  occasions — must  have  had  the 
fine  bloom  of  simplicity  and  nature  nearly  rubbed  off — and  must 
have  been  connected  with  much  that  would  sully  that  healthi- 
ness and  freshness  of  character,  which  almost  every  body  has 
for  the  first  few  years  of  life — while  with  the  quite  young  none  of 
these  things  have  happened:  they  are  taken  away,  like  blossoms 
with  the  dew  upon  them,  in  all  their  sweetness  and  modesty :  time 
has  not  seared  up  the  delightful  spring  of  spirits;  the  course  of 
years  has  not  withered  that  susceptibility  and  pliancy  which 
might  be  turned  to  so  much  account,  but  is  so  often  misdirected 
by  the  carelessness  of  the  old;  nor  have  Guilt  and  Wretchedness 
yet  had  dominion  over  them. — The  contrast  between  the  two 
cases  is,  therefore,  the  contrast  between  the  drying  up  of  some 
clear  and  narrow  brook,  and  the  extinction  of  an  inland  river: 
the  latter  stronger,  to  be  sure,  and  of  more  importance  than  the 

» From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  August  1 1, 1 840. 


26  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

other,  but  not  so  pure,  transparent,  and  resigned.  The  last  would 
leave  a  greater  vacuum  also;  but  on  its  dry  bed  would  remain  signs 
of  its  having  done  evil — traces  of  its  fury,  its  remorselessness,  and 
its  treacherous  wrecking  of  what  had  been  trusted  to  its  bosom. 

When  a  man  dies,  who  can  say  what  deep  stains  may  have 
rested,  at  one  time  or  another,  upon  his  soul?  what  crimes 
(untouchable,  perhaps,  by  the  laws  of  men  or  the  rules  of  so- 
ciety) he  has  committed,  either  in  evil  wishes  or  in  reality? 
How  many  persons  go  down  to  the  grave,  praised  by  the  world 
and  pointed  to  as  examples,  who  were  still  far,  very  far,  from 
good  men!  They  may  have  respected  custom,  honored  the 
government,  followed  the  fashion,  paid  to  public  charity  every 
cent  which  the  law  demanded,  kept  clear  of  glaring  transgres- 
sions, stood  up  or  bowed  down  their  heads  in  houses  of  worship 
just  at  the  due  time,  and  still,  if  we  could  open  their  hearts  and 
see  what  went  on  there  we  should  be  sickened  and  amazed!  It 
is  a  true  saying,  that  we  can  never,  in  the  great  drama  of  life, 
pronounce  judgment  upon  the  good  or  ill  performance  of  his 
part  by  a  fellow  creature,  until  the  last  act  and  the  last  scene  are 
over,  the  bell  rung,  and  the  curtain  dropped. — With  the  dead 
girl  or  boy,  the  transient  play  is  finished:  we  know  that  the  worst 
deeds  they  ever  committed  were  but  children's  follies;  and 
one  great  balm,  on  such  oocasions,  is  the  knowledge,  that  for 
them  the  future  has  no  terrors,  the  time  to  come  no  temptations 
or  miseries. 

Perhaps  I  may  as  well  relate,  in  conclusion,  the  incident  that 
has  given  rise  to  these  reflections.  I  have  just  received,  through 
a  newspaper,  intelligence  of  the  death  of  one  whom  I  knew 
slightly,  and  whose  gentleness  and  brightness  of  intellect  could 
not  help  endearing  him  to  all  who  love  the  young.  His  age  was 
fourteen  or  fifteen  years:  he  died  at  a  place  some  distance  from 
home,  where  he  had  been  sent  for  his  education.  The  last  time 
I  saw  him,  we  walked  a  mile  or  two  together.  It  was  in  the 
country,  and  the  season  was  Autumn.  How  little  did  I  think 
that  ere  the  grain  or  fruits  would  ripen  again  he  would  be 
blighted! — that  his  Autumn  would  arrive  ere  the  Spring  had 
passed.  Rest  in  peace,  young  boy!  Your  silver  thread  of  life 
is  cut  soon;  but  there  are  ills  on  earth  to  make  men  envy  your 
fate.  Your  sleep  is  calm  and  quiet.  Oh,  when  the  pulse  grows 
faint  with  its  last  throbbing — when  the  cold  sweat  has  dried 
upon  the  brow — when  the  pan  tings  of  "life's  fitful  fever"1  have 
rMacbeth,"  III,  2,  23. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  37 

ceased — then  let  us  hope  to  meet  you  in  that  far  off  land  of 
mystery  which  passes  the  imagination  of  man  to  conceive  or 
the  utmost  stretch  of  his  intellect  to  trace. 


SUN-DOWN  PAPERS— [No.  7]! 

From  the  desk  of  a  Schoolmaster 

I  think  that  if  I  should  make  pretensions  to  be  a  philosopher, 
and  should  determine  to  edify  the  world  with  what  would 
add  to  the  number  of  those  sage  and  ingenious  theories  which  do 
already  so  much  abound,  I  would  compose  a  wonderful  and 
ponderous  book.  Therein  should  be  treated  on,  the  nature  and 
peculiarities  of  men,  the  diversity  of  their  characters,  the  means 
of  improving  their  state,  and  the  proper  mode  of  governing 
nations;  with  divers  other  points  whereon  I  could  no  doubt 
throw  quite  as  much  light  as  do  many  of  those  worthy  gentlemen, 
who,  to  the  delight  and  instruction  of  our  citizens,  occasionally 
treat  upon  these  subjects  in  printed  periodicals,  in  books,  and  in 
publick  discourses.2  At  the  same  time  that  I  would  do  all  this,  I 
would  carefully  avoid  saying  any  thing  of  woman;  because  it  be- 
hoves a  modest  personage  like  myself  not  to  speak  upon  a  class 
of  beings  of  whose  nature,  habits,  notions,  and  ways  he  has  not 
been  able  to  gather  any  knowledge,  either  by  experience  or  ob- 
servation. 

Nobody,  I  hope,  will  accuse  me  of  conceit  in  these  opinions  of 
mine  own  capacity  for  doing  great  things.  In  good  truth,  I 
think  the  world  suffers  from  this  much-bepraised  modesty.3 
Who  should  be  a  better  judge  of  a  man's  talents  than  the  man 
himself?  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should  let  our  lights  shine 
under  bushels.  Yes:  I  would  write  a  book!  And  who  shall 
say  that  it  might  not  be  a  very  pretty  book?  Who  knows  but 
that  I  might  do  something  very  respectable? 

And  one  principal  claim  to  a  place  among  men  of  profound 
sagacity,  by  means  of  the  work  I  allude  to,  would  be  on  ac- 
count of  a  wondrous  and  important  discovery,  a  treatise  upon 
which  would  fill  up  the  principal  part  of  my  compilation.  ^1^ 
havejound  out  that  it  is  a  verydangerous  thing  to  be  rich.4 
ToTXconsiderable  time  past  this  ldeaTTias  beerT pressing  upon 

"From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  September  29, 1 840. 

*C/.  post,  II,  p.  76.     *  Cf.  post,  II,  p.  89.    *  Cf.  infra,  pp.  Ill,  123-125  II,  pp.  63,  67. 


38  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

me;  and  I  am  now  fully  andunalterably  cojivincedof  its  truth. 
Some  years  ago,  when  my  judgemejnjLwas_in  the  bud7T~tKoufihT 
jjcheswere  very  desirable  things.  But  I  have  altered  my  mindT 
Light  has  flowed  in  upon  me]  I  am  not  quite  so  green  as  I  was. 
The  mists  and  clouds  have  cleared  away,  and  I  can  now  behold 
things  as  they  really  are.  Do  you  want  to  know  some  of  the 
causes  of  this  change  ot7)pinion  ?  Look  yonder.  See  the  sweat 
pouring  down  that  man's  face.  See  the  wrinkles  on  his  narrow 
forehead.  He  is  a  poor,  miserable,  rich  man.  He  has  been  up 
since  an  hour  before  sunrise,  fussing,  and  mussing,  and  toiling 
and  wearying,  as  if  there  were  no  safety  for  his  life,  except  in 
uninterrupted  motion.  He  is  worried  from  day  to  day  to  pre- 
serve and  take  care  of  his  possessions.  He  keeps  horses; 
and  one  of  them  is  by  him.  Look  at  the  miserable  brute  (the 
horse,  I  mean).  See  how  his  sides  pant.  I  warrant  me,  the 
animal  has  no  rest  for  the  soles  of  his  feet. 

I  don't  know  when  I  have  been  more  pleased  than  I  was  the 
other  day  by  an  illustration  which  a  friend  of  mine  gave  of 
the  trouble  of  great  wealth.  Life,  said  he,  is  a  long  journey 
by  steamboat,  stagecoach,  and  railroad.  We  hardly  get  fairly 
and  comfortably  adjusted  in  the  vehicle  that  carries  us  for  the 
time  being,  when  we  are  obliged  to  stop  and  get  into  another 
conveyance,  and  go  a  different  road.  We  are  continually  on  the 
move.  We  may  sometimes  flatter  ourselves  in  the  idea  of 
making  a  comfortable  stop,  with  time  enough  to  eat  our  dinner 
and  lounge  about  a  little;  but  the  bell  rings,  the  steam  puffs,  the 
horn  blows,  the  waiters  run  about  half  mad,  every  thing  is 
hurry-scurry  for  a  moment,  and  whiz!  we  are  off  again.  What 
wise  man  thinks  of  cumbering  up  this  journey  with  an  immense 
mass  of  luggage?  Who,  that  makes  pretensions  to  common 
sense,  will  carry  with  him  a  dozen  trunks,  and  bandboxes,  hat- 
boxes,  valises,  chests,  umbrellas,  and  canes  innumerable,  be- 
sides two  dirty  shirts  in  the  crown  of  his  hat,  and  a  heavy  brass 
watch  that  won't  keep  time,  in  his  waistcoat  pocket? 

This  is,  in  all  sincerity,  a  true  picture  of  the  case.  People 
groan,  and  grieve,  and  work,  to  no  other  purpose  than  merely 
their  own  inconvenience.  And  when  at  last  they  arrive  at  the 
grand  stopping  place  for  their  travels  here,  and  start  on  that 
mysterious  train  we  all  go  with  sooner  or  later,  they  find  that 
the  Grand  Engineer  admits  no  luggage  therein.  There  is  no 
freight  car  to  the  Hidden  Land.  Money  and  property  must  be 
left   behind.    The    noiseless    and    strange    attendants   gather 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  39 

from  every  passenger  his  ticket,  and  heed  not  whether  he  be 
dark  or  fair,  clad  in  homespun  or  fine  apparel.  Happy  he  whose 
wisdom  has  purchased  beforehand  a  token  of  his  having  settled 
satisfactorily  for  the  journey! 


SUN-DOWN  PAPERS— [No.  8]1 
From  the  Desk  of  a  Schoolmaster 

On  a  pleasant,  still,  summer  evening,  I  once  took  a  walk  down 
a  lane  that  borders  our  village.  The  moon  was  shining  with  a 
luscious  brightness;  I  gazed  on  the  glorious  evidences  of  divinity 
hanging  above  me,  and  as  1  gazed  strange  and  fitful  thoughts 
occupied  my  brain.  I  reflected  on  the  folly  and  vanity  of  those 
objects  with  which  most  men  occupy  their  lives;  and  the  awe  and 
dread  with  which  they  approach  its  close.  I  remembered  the 
strife  for  temporary  and  puerile  distinctions — the  seeking  after 
useless  and  cumbersome  wealth — the  yielding  up  the  diseased 
mind  to  be  a  prey  to  constant  melancholy  and  discontent;  all 
which  may  be  daily  seen  by  those  who  have  intercourse  with  the 
sons  of  men.  But,  most  of  all,  I  thought  on  the  troubles  caused 
under  the  name  of  Truth  and  Religion — the  dissentions  which 
have  arisen  between  those  of  opposing  creeds — and  the  quarrels 
and  bickerings  that  even  now  prevail  among  men  upon  the  slight- 
est and  most  trivial  points  of  opinion  in  these  things.  While 
such  imaginings  possessed  my  mind,  I  unconsciously  seated 
myself  upon  a  grassy  bank;  weariness,  induced  by  the  fatigues 
of  the  day,  overpowered  me;  I  sank  into  a  tranquil  sleep,  and 
the  spirit  of  dreams  threw  his  misty  veil  about  my  soul. 

I  was  wandering  over  the  earth  in  search  of  Truth.2  Cities 
were  explored  by  my  enterprise;  and  the  mouldy  volumes  which 
for  years  had  lain  undisturbed,  were  eagerly  scanned  to  discover 
the  object  of  my  labours.  Among  the  pale  and  attenuated 
votaries  of  science,  I  mixed  as  with  kindred  spirits;  and  the 
proudest  of  the  learned  were  my  familiars.  My  piercing 
gaze  penetrated  far  down  into  the  mines  of  knowledge,  en- 
deavouring to  reach  that  jewel  fairer,  and  brighter,  and  more 
precious  than  earthly  jewels;  but  in  vain,  for  it  eluded  my  sight. 
Through  the  crowded  ranks  of  men  who  swarm  in  thickly  peopled 

» From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  October  20,  1 84a 
*Cf.  "Complete  Prose,"  pp.  232-333. 


4o  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

places,  I  took  my  way,  silent  and  unobserved,  but  ever  on  the 
alert  for  a  clew  to  guide  me  toward  the  attainment  of  that  which 
was  the  hope  of  my  soul.  I  entered  the  gorgeous  temples  where 
pride,  dressed  in  rich  robes,  preaches  the  doctrine  of  the  holy 
and  just  Nazarene:  I  waited  at  the  courts  of  powerful  princes, 
where  pomp,  and  grandeur,  and  adoration  combined  to  make  a 
frail  mortal  think  himself  mighty:  I  stood  in  the  presence  of  the 
youthful  and  the  gay — beauty,  flashing  in  its  bloom — strength, 
rearing  itself  in  pride — revellers,  and  dancers,  and  feasters. 
But  my  heart  turned  comfortless  from  them  all,  for  it  had  not 
attained  its  desire,  and  disappointment  was  heavy  upon  it.  I 
then  travelled  to  distant  and  uncivilized  regions.  Far  in  the 
north,  among  mountains  of  snow  and  rivers  of  ice,  I  sought  what 
alone  could  gratify  me.  I  lived,  too,  with  the  rude  Tartar  in 
his  tent,  and  installed  myself  in  all  the  mysteries  which  are 
known  to  the  Lamas  of  Thibet.  I  wandered  to  a  more  southern 
clime,  and  disputed  with  the  Brahmins,  who  profess  to  believe 
in  a  religion  that  has  existed  for  more  centuries  than  any  other 
one  has  years.  The  swarthy  worshipper  of  fire  made  known  to 
me  his  belief;  and  the  devotee  of  the  camel-driver  of  Mecca 
strived  for  my  conversion  to  his  faith.  But  useless  was  all  my 
toil,  and  valueless  were  all  the  immense  stores  of  learning  I  had 
acquired.  I  was  baffled  in  all  my  attempts,  and  only  began  new 
projects  to  find  them  meet  with  as  little  success  as  the  former. 

Sick  and  disheartened,  I  retired  far  from  the  inhabited  por- 
tions of  earth,  and  lived  in  solitude  amid  a  wild  and  moun- 
tainous country.  I  there  spent  my  time  in  reflection,  and 
the  pursuit  of  the  various  branches  of  learning,  and  lived  upon 
the  frugal  produce  of  the  neighboring  fields.  I  had  one  day 
travelled  to  some  distance  from  my  usual  retreat,  and  kept  in- 
sensibly wandering  onward  and  onward,  till  I  found  myself  sud- 
denly brought  to  a  stand  by  an  immense  ledge  of  rocks  which 
rose  almost  perpendicularly  in  front  of  me,  and,  reaching  far 
away  on  each  side,  effectually  closed  up  my  advance.  The 
top  of  this  stupendous  pile  was  hidden  in  the  clouds,  and  so 
steep  was  it  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  ascend.  I  stood  per- 
plexed and  wondering,  incited  by  curiosity  to  explore  its  heights 
and  warned  by  prudence  to  return  to  my  cell,  when  I  heard  a 
low  but  clear  and  silvery  voice  pronounce  these  words,  as  if 
from  the  cloud  over  my  head: 

"Mortal,  thou  hast  now  an  opportunity  of  seeing  what  has 
been  the  search  of  thy  life.     From  the  top  of  the  mountain 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  41 

which  rises  before  thee,  thou  mayest  behold  on  the  opposite  side 
the  holy  altar  of  Truth.  Ascend,  and  refresh  thine  eyes  with  the 
picture  of  its  loveliness. " 

Amazed  and  transported  with  this  assurance,  I  immediately 
began  to  climb  the  precipice.  The  ascent  was  rugged  and  dif- 
ficult, but  perseverance  and  incessant  vigour  enabled  me  to 
surmount  every  bar.  I  succeeded  in  reaching  the  top,  and 
threw  myself,  panting  and  covered  with  sweat,  on  the  stony  sand. 
When  weariness  had  at  length  given  way  before  the  power  of 
repose,  I  walked  onwards  over  the  mountain,  which  was  com- 
posed of  sterile  black  rocks  and  sand,  with  not  a  spot  of  verdure 
to  relieve  its  gloomy  appearance,  and  at  length  arrived  at  the 
brow  of  the  precipice.  On  this  side,  the  mountain  appeared 
still  more  steep,  and  to  advance  to  the  edge  was  evidently 
attended  with  great  danger.  I  did  so,  however,  and  my  dazzled 
eyes  fell  on  a  sight  more  beautiful  than  was  ever  before  re- 
vealed to  mortals.  Far  below  stretched  a  country  exceeding 
the  imagination  of  the  seeker  after  pleasure,  and  more  lovely 
than  the  dreams  which  benignant  spirits  sometimes  weave 
around  the  couch  of  youth  and  innocence.  The  surface  of  the 
land  was  covered  with  soft  grass,  and  with  fragrant  trees,  and 
shrubs,  and  flowers,  far  fresher  and  fairer  than  those  of  our 
world.  Here  and  there  it  was  decked  with  sparkling  streams  of 
water,  sweet  as  the  tear  which  falls  in  behalf  of  sorrow  from 
the  eye  of  virtue,  and  fair  as  snow-drops  in  the  tresses  of 
beauty.  These  brooks  broke  occasionally  into  little  cascades, 
which  gushed  forth  joyously,  and  seemed  to  murmur  their 
happiness  in  sounds  of  thankful  gratitude  to  heaven. 

But  it  was  not  the  flowers,  or  the  rich  verdure,  or  the  bubbling 
waters  that  attracted  my  attention.  The  scene  was  delight- 
fully variegated  with  rolls  and  slight  elevations  of  land:  on  the 
highest  of  these  I  beheld  a  white  marble  base,  on  which  were 
raised  several  columns,  and  over  the  whole  was  thrown  a  roof 
of  the  same  material,  presenting  an  edifice  of  singular  appear- 
ance, but  of  the  most  exquisite  finish.  I  could  not  at  once  make 
out  its  proportions,  for  there  appeared  around  it  something  like 
a  mist,  which  was  the  more  singular,  as  in  every  other  place  the 
light  was  of  a  radiant  clearness.  In  fact,  when  I  first  viewed 
the  spot,  though  I  was  on  the  alert,  this  temple,  if  so  it  may  be 
called,  did  not  strike  my  eye  at  all;  but  now,  by  dint  of  the 
most  intent  gazing,  I  could  perceive  its  various  parts  with  tol- 
erable accuracy.     While  I  was  communing  with  myself  in  what 


42  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

manner  I  should  endeavour  to  reach  the  ground  below,  and  ex- 
plore the  very  recesses  of  the  marble  temple,  the  silence  around 
me  was  suddenly  broken,  and  I  heard  the  voice  which  had  once 
before  addressed  me  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  speaking  in 
tones  which  sounded  like  the  notes  of  a  flute  breathed  through 
groves  of  spicy  flowers: 

"Seek  not,  O  child  of  clay/'  it  said,  "to  discover  that  which  is 
hidden  by  an  allseeing  God,  from  the  knowledge  of  mortals! 
Wert  thou  to  attain  thy  desire,  thou  wouldst  still  be  impotent, 
for  thine  eyes,  covered  as  they  are  with  the  dark  web  of  mortal- 
ity, would  be  unable  to  comprehend  the  awful  mysteries  which 
Nature  veils  from  thy  mind.  But  turn  thy  gaze  to  the  left, 
below  the  hill  on  which  the  temple  stands,  and  learn  a  lesson  of 
instruction  which  will  repay  all  thy  fatigue." 

The  voice  ceased,  and,  struck  with  awe,  I  looked  in  the  direc- 
tion it  had  pointed  out  to  me.  I  beheld  a  country  different  en- 
tirely from  the  one  I  have  just  described,  and  in  almost  every 
respect  like  that  earth  on  which  we  live.  It  was  not  far  from 
the  temple  of  Truth,  which  could  be  perceived  from  it,  but  the 
two  were  divided  by  an  impassable  vacuum.  Upon  the  small 
spot  of  ground  which  resembled  our  native  planet,  I  beheld 
many  people,  of  all  classes,  and  nations,  and  tongues  and  dresses, 
constantly  passing,  with  their  attention  directed  toward  the 
temple.  Each  one  seemed  to  view  it  with  the  utmost  care,  and 
to  wish  to  penetrate  the  veil  of  surrounding  mist  that  dimmed 
its  clearness.  There  was  one  thing,  however,  which  astonished 
and  at  first  somewhat  bewildered  me.  I  observed  that  each  one 
of  these  inquirers  after  Truth  held  in  his  hand  an  optical  glass 
and  never  gazed  at  the  temple  but  through  its  medium.  Upon 
observing  closely,  I  saw  that  these  glasses  were  of  the  most  in- 
congruous shapes  and  forms,  and  exercised  singular  and  amaz- 
ing power  over  the  appearance  of  whatever  was  beheld  through 
them.  With  some  they  were  narrow  and  contracted,  making 
the  temple  appear  insignificant  and  mean.  Some  had  them  of 
one  colour,  and  others  of  a  different.  Many  of  the  glasses  were  of 
so  gross  a  texture,  that  the  temple  was  completely  hid  from  view. 
Some  of  them  distorted  it  into  the  most  grotesque  shapes  and 
forms:  others  again  would  make  it  appear  an  ordinary  edifice; 
and  few  were  so  true  as  to  give  a  view  of  the  temple  nigh  to  its 
correct  representation.  But  if  whatever  correctness  were  these 
glasses,  each  individual  persisted  in  looking  at  the  object  of  his 
attention  through  their  aid.     No  one,  or  at  least  very  few,  was 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  43 

seen  to  examine  the  temple  with  the  clear  and  undistorted  organs 
which  nature  had  given  him:  and  that  few,  I  found,  were 
scoffed  at  and  persecuted  by  all  the  others,  who,  though  they 
differed  to  the  utmost  in  their  manner  of  viewing  Truth  among 
themselves,  yet  united  to  a  man  in  condemning  those  who  en- 
deavoured to  see  what  little  could  be  perceived  of  the  temple 
without  the  false  assistance  of  some  glass  or  other. 

I  stood  gazing  on  these  things,  perplexed,  and  hardly  knowing 
what  to  think  of  them,  when  I  once  more  heard  the  voice 
which  had  twice  addressed  me.  It  had  lost  none  of  its  sweet- 
ness, but  there  was  now  in  it  an  admonishing  tone  which  sank 
into  my  soul  as  the  rich  stores  of  learning  penetrate  the  open 
ears  of  attention: 

"Behold!"  thus  it  spoke,  "and  learn  wisdom  from  the  spec- 
tacles which  have  been  this  day  unfolded  to  thine  eyes.  Thou 
hast  gazed  upon  the  altar  of  Nature;  but  hast  seen  how  impos- 
sible it  is  to  penetrate  the  knowledge  which  is  stored  within  it. 
Let  pride  therefore  depart  from  thy  soul,  and  let  a  sense  of  the 
littleness  of  all  earthly  acquirements  bow  down  thy  head  in  awe 
before  the  mighty  Creator  of  a  million  worlds.  Thou  hadst 
seen  that  whatever  of  the  great  light  of  Truth  it  has  been 
deemed  expedient  to  show  to  mortals  can  be  most  truly  and 
usefully  contemplated  by  the  plain  eye  of  simplicity,  unac- 
companied by  the  clogs  and  notions  which  dim  the  gaze  of  most 
men — and  hast  with  wonder  seen  how  all  will  still  continue  to 
view  the  noblest  objects  of  desire  through  the  distorted  medium 
of  their  own  prejudices  and  bigotry.  The  altar  of  Truth  is  immu- 
table, unchangeable  and  firm,  ever  the  same  bright  emanation 
from  God,  and  ever  consistent  with  its  founder.  Though  worlds 
shoot  out  of  existence — though  stars  grow  dim,  and  whole  sys- 
tems are  blotted  out  of  being  by  the  hand  of  the  mighty  con- 
queror, Change — yet  will  Nature  and  Truth,  for  they  two  in  [are] 
one,  stand  up  in  everlasting  youth  and  bloom  and  power. 
Thou  seest,  then,  how  miserable  are  all  the  creeds  and  doctrines 
prevailing  among  men,  which  profess  to  bring  down  these  awful 
mysteries,  [as]  things  which  they  can  fathom  and  search  out. 
Kneel,  then,  oh!  insect  of  an  hour,  whose  every  formation  is  sub- 
ject enough  for  an  eternity  of  wonder — and  whose  fate  is 
wrapped  in  a  black  shroud  of  uncertainty — kneel  on  that  earth 
which  thou  makest  the  scene  of  thy  wretched  strife  after  corrup- 
tible honors — of  thy  own  little  schemes  for  happiness — and  of 
thy  crimes  and  guilt — kneel,  bend  thy  face  to  the  sand,  spread 


44     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

out  the  puny  arms  with  which  thy  pride  would  win  so  much  glory 
— and  adore  with  a  voiceless  awe,  that  Unknown  Power,  the  very 
minutest  idea  of  whose  abode  and  strength,  and  formation,  and 
intentions,  it  would  be  more  difficult  for  thee  to  comprehend 
than  for  a  stroke  of  thy  hand  to  push  out  of  their  orbits  the  suns 
and  systems  which  make  the  slightest  evidence  of  his  strength. " 

Speechless  and  trembling,  I  listened  to  the  sounds  of  this 
awful  voice.  I  had  sunk  to  the  earth  in  fear,  for  a  strange 
and  pervading  terror  had  filled  my  frame,  while  the  unseen 
spirit  had  given  utterance  to  his  words.  But  at  length  I 
arose,  and  endeavored  to  return  the  gratitude  of  my  soul  for 
the  priceless  treasures  which  had  been  showered  upon  my  mind. 

The  agitations  of  my  thoughts,  however,  broke  my  slumbers. 
I  awoke  and  found  that  the  moon  had  long  raised  her  radiant 
face,  and  was  throwing  down  floods  of  light  to  illuminate  the 
earth.  The  cold  mists  of  night  had  stiffened  my  limbs,  and 
were  falling  heavy  around  on  the  wet  grass.  I  slowly  wended 
my  way  homeward,  my  soul  improved  in  knowledge,  and  deter- 
mined to  treasure  during  life  the  instruction  I  had  gained  from 
the  vision  that  night. 

SUN-DOWN  PAPERS— [No.  9]1 
From  the  Desk  of  a  Schoolmaster 

How  I  do  love  a  loafer!  Of  all  human  beings,  none  equals 
your  genuine,  inbred,  unvarying  loafer.  Now  when  I  say  loafer, 
I  mean  loafer;  not  a  fellow  who  is  lazy  by  fits  and  starts — who  to- 
day will  work  his  twelve  or  fourteen  hours,  and  to-morrow  doze 
and  idle.  I  stand  up  for  no  such  half-way  business.  Give  me 
your  calm,  steady,  philosophick  son  of  indolence;  one  that 
does  n't  swerve  from  the  beaten  track;  a  man  who  goes  the  un- 
divided beast.  To  such  an  one  will  I  doff  my  beaver.  No 
matter  whether  he  be  a  street  loafer  or  a  dock  loafer — whether 
his  hat  be  rimless,  and  his  boots  slouched,  and  his  coat  out  at 
the  elbows:  he  belongs  to  that  ancient  and  honourable  frater- 
nity, whom  I  venerate  above  all  your  upstarts,  your  dandies, 
and  your  political  oracles. 

All  the  old  philosophers  were  loafers.  Take  Diogenes  for 
instance.     He  lived  in  a  tub,  and  demeaned  himself  like  a 

1  From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  November  28, 1 840. 
Cf.post,  II,  p.  314. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  45 

true  child  of  the  great  loafer  family.  Or  go  back  farther,  if  you 
like,  even  to  the  very  beginning.  What  was  Adam,  I  should 
like  to  know,  but  a  loafer?  Did  he  do  any  thing  but  loaf  ?  Who 
is  foolish  enough  to  say  that  Adam  was  a  working  man?  Who 
dare  aver  that  he  dealt  in  stocks,  or  was  busy  in  the  sugar  line? 

I  hope  you  will  not  so  far  expose  yourself  as  to  ask,  who  was 
the  founder  of  loafers.  Know  you  not,  ignorance,  that  there 
never  was  such  a  thing  as  the  origin  of  loaferism?  We  don't 
acknowledge  any  founder.  There  have  always  been  loafers 
as  they  were  in  the  beginning,  are  now,  and  ever  shall  be — 
having  no  material  difference.  Without  any  doubt,  when 
Chaos  had  his  acquaintance  cut,  and  the  morning  stars  sang 
together,  and  the  little  rivers  danced  a  cotillion  for  pure  fun — 
there  were  loafers  somewhere  about,  enjoying  the  scene  in 
all  their  accustomed  philosophick  quietude. 

When  I  have  been  in  a  dreamy,  musing  mood,  I  have  some- 
times amused  myself  with  picturing  out  a  nation  of  loafers. 
Only  think  of  it!  an  entire  loafer  kingdom!  How  sweet  it 
sounds!  Repose, — quietude, — roast  duck, — loafer.  Smooth 
and  soft  are  the  terms  to  our  jarred  tympanums. 

Imagine  some  distant  isle  inhabited  altogether  by  loafers. 
Of  course  there  is  a  good  deal  of  sunshine,  for  sunshine  is 
the  loafer's  natural  element.  All  breathes  peace  and  harmony. 
No  hurry,  or  bustle,  or  banging,  or  clanging.  Your  ears  ache  no 
more  with  the  din  of  carts;  the  noisy  politician  offends  you  not, 
no  wrangling,  no  quarreling,  no  loco  focos,  no  British  whigs. 

Talk  about  your  commercial  countries,  and  your  national 
industry,  indeed!  Give  us  the  facilities  of  loafing,  and  you  are 
welcome  to  all  the  benefits  of  your  tariff  system,  your  manu- 
facturing privileges,  and  your  cotton  trade.  For  my  part,  I 
have  had  serious  thoughts  of  getting  up  a  regular  ticket  for 
President  and  Congress  and  Governor  and  so  on,  for  the  loafer 
community  in  general.  I  think  we  loafers  should  organize. 
We  want  somebody  to  carry  out  "our  principles."  It  is  my  im- 
pression, too,  that  we  should  poll  a  pretty  strong  vote.  We 
number  largely  in  the  land.  At  all  events  our  strength  would 
enable  us  to  hold  the  balance  of  power,  and  we  should  be  courted 
and  coaxed  by  all  the  rival  factions.  And  there  is  no  telling  but 
what  we  might  elect  our  men.  Stranger  things  than  that  have 
come  to  pass. 

These  last  hints  I  throw  out  darkly,  as  it  were.  I  by  no 
means  assert  that  we  positively  will  get  up  and  vote  for,  a  regu- 


46  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

lar  ticket  to  support  the  "great  measures  of  our  party."  I  am 
only  telling  what  may  be  done,  in  case  we  are  provoked.  Myster- 
ious intimations  have  been  thrown  out — dark  sayings  uttered, 
by  those  high  in  society,  that  the  grand  institution  of  loaferism 
was  to  be  abolished.  People  have  talked  of  us  sneeringly  and 
frowningly.  Cold  eyes  have  been  turned  upon  us.  Over- 
bearing men  have  spoken  in  derogatory  terms  about  our  rights 
and  our  dignity.1  You  had  better  be  careful,  gentlemen. 
You  had  better  look  out  how  you  irritate  us.  It  would  make 
you  look  sneaking  enough,  if  we  were  to  come  out  at  the  next 
election,  and  carry  away  the  palm  before  both  your  political 
parties. 


SUN-DOWN  PAPERS— [No.  9,  bis]* 
From  the  Desk  of  a  Schoolmaster 

As  I  was  taking  a  solitary  walk  the  other  evening,  the  moon 
and  stars  shining  over  me  with  a  beautiful  brightness,  I  came 
suddenly  upon  a  man  with  whom  I  was  bitterly  at  variance. 
The  philosophic  meditation  which  the  balmy  coolness  and  the 
voluptuousness  of  the  scene  had  led  me  into,  being  thus  broken 
in  upon,  my  thoughts  took  a  different  channel.  I  considered 
within  myself,  how  evil  a  thing  it  is  to  be  at  enmity.  I  thought 
of  the  surpassing  folly  of  a  man  in  allowing  his  disposition  to 
hate,  whether  in  a  great  or  little  degree,  to  be  cherished  in  his 
mind. — This  individual,  my  enemy,  and  I,  had  differed  upon  a 
matter  of  opinion;  a  sharp  word  had  passed,  and  after  that 
there  was  an  impassable  gulf  between  us.     Miserable  childish- 

iThe  editorial  in  the  column  adjoining  the  above  paper  deals  with  "School  Matters." 
Criticizing  the  inspectors  of  schools,  it  says:  "Half  the  time  they  allow  certificates  to  men 
ignorant  and  stupid,  of  shattered  characters,  of  questionable  morality,  of  intemperate 
habits,  of  blasphemous  tongues,  or  of  raw  and  illiterate  minds.  Two  thirds  of  the 
common  school  teachers  are  unfit  for  the  office.  As  a  class,  they  are  by  no  means  of  the 
highest  order.  They  seem  to  be  made  up,  in  the  main,  of  persons  who  have  broken 
down  in  other  business,  who  are  too  ignorant  or  too  lazy  to  do  anything  else,  and  who 
take  up  the  profession,  because  they  can't  get  any  other  way  to  make  a  living.  Passing 
about  here  and  there,  they  acquire  irregular  habits,  and  fall  into  dissolute  trains  of 
thinking  and  acting.  Most  of  them  are  far  more  proper  subjects  for  feeling  the  rod  than 
wielding  the  rod.  They  begin  and  go  through  the  accustomed  routine  of  the  school 
room,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week  it  is  fortunate  for  the  young  tribe,  if  they  are  as  far 
ahead  as  they  were  when  they  began."     Cf.  post,  II,  pp.  13— 1 5, 1 24. 

'From  the  Long  Island  Democrat,  July  6, 1841. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  47 

ness!  that  man,  the  insect  of  an  hour,1  whose  life  is  but  a  pass- 
ing breath,  must  have  his  mighty  quarrels  with  his  brother, 
and  for  something  of  a  feather's  value,  entrench  himself  upon 
his  dignity,  and  meet  his  fancied  foe  with  a  scowl  or  a  contemp- 
tuous lip-curl. 

He  to  whom  many  persons  are  hateful  is  a  very  unhappy  be- 
ing. It  is  far  better  to  love  than  to  hate.  But  even  he  who 
leans  neither  upon  one  side  or  the  other,  but  jogs  through  the 
world  with  no  stronger  feeling  for  his  fellows  than  indifference, 
loses  all  the  rich  bloom  and  flavor  of  life.  Down  in  every 
human  heart  there  are  many  sweet  fountains,  which  require 
only  to  be  touched  in  order  to  gush  forth.  Yet  there  are 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  men  who  go  on  from  year  to  year 
with  their  pitiful  schemes  of  business  and  profit,  and  wrapped 
up  and  narrowed  down  in  those  schemes,  they  never  think  of  the 
pleasant  and  beautiful  capacities  that  God  has  given  them. 
Affection,  that  delicate  but  most  fragrant  flower  of  Paradise, 
sits  folded  up  within  them,  but  never  blossoms  there. — Love 
and  charity,  twin  angels  of  ineffable  grace,  and  favorites  of  the 
great  Source  of  Glory,  lock  their  arms  around  each  other,  and 
lie  themselves  to  slumber,  in  those  souls — slumber  but  wake 
not.2  I  pity  such  people.  I  pity  them  for  that  they  enjoy 
no  true  pleasure;  for  that  they  are  all  gross,  sensual,  and  low; 
for  that  they  do  so  little  honor  to  their  Maker,  and  let  such 
costly  and  glorious  treasures  lie  undigged  in  the  mine. 

I  would  have  men  cultivate  their  disposition  for  kindness  to  all 
around.  I  would  have  them  foster  and  cherish  the  faculty 
of  love.  To  be  sure,  it  may  not  bring  in  a  percentage  like  bank 
stock,  or  corporation  scrip,  or  bonds  and  mortgages,  but  it  is 
very  valuable,  and  will  pay  many  fold.  It  is  a  faculty  given  to 
every  human  soul,  though  in  most  it  is  dormant  and  used  not. 
It  prompts  us  to  be  affectionate  and  gentle  to  all  men.  It  leads 
us  to  scorn  the  cold  and  heartless  limits  of  custom,  but  moves  our 
souls  to  swell  up  with  pure  and  glowing  love  for  persons  or  for 
communities.  It  makes  us  disdain  to  be  hemmed  in  by  the 
formal  mummeries  of  fashion,  but  at  the  kiss  of  a  sister  or  a 
brother,  or  when  our  arms  clasp  the  form  of  a  friend,  or  when 
our  lips  touch  the  cheek  of  a  boy  or  girl  whom  we  love,  it  proves 
to  us  that  all  pleasures  of  dollars  and  cents  are  dross  to  those  of 
loving  and  being  beloved. 

Ere  I  close  this  paper,  I  will  add  a  sentence  or  two,  lest  I 

iQf.  infra,  I,  p.  14.        2Cf.  post,  p.  86,  II,  p.  71. 


48  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

be  misunderstood.  By  "love"  as  I  have  used  the  term  in  the 
preceding  essay,  I  do  not  mean  the  sickly  sentimentality  which 
is  so  favorite  a  theme  with  novelists  and  magazine  writers. 
What  I  would  inculcate  is  that  healthy,  cheerful  feeling  of  kind- 
ness and  good  will,  an  affectionate  tenderness,  a  warm-hearted- 
ness, the  germs  of  which  are  plentifully  sown  by  God  in  each 
human  breast;  and  which  contribute  to  form  a  state  of  feeling 
very  different  from  the  puerile,  moping  love,  painted  by  such 
trashy  writers  as  Byron  and  Bulwer,  and  their  more  trashy 
imitators.1 


SUN-DOWN  PAPERS— [No.  icf 
From  the  Desk  of  a  Schoolmaster 

We  had  all  made  up  our  minds  to  take  a  jaunt  in  the  South 
Bay;  and  accordingly  at  the  appointed  morning,  about  sunrise, 
might  have  been  seen  wending  their  way  toward  the  place 
of  rendezvous,  the  various  members  of  our  party.     The  wise 

i  Whitman's  supposition  that  only  sexual  affection  was  in  danger  of  becoming  sickly 
in  its  sentimentality  is,  in  the  light  of  the  present  sketch,  not  to  mention  many  another, 
rather  naive.  It  was  natural  enough,  however,  to  the  elevated  and  exacting  idealism 
of  a  poet's  adolescence.  He  seems  never  to  have  cared  much  for  Bulwer  (see  post,  pp. 
122, 157),  but  he  quoted  Byron  freely  while  in  New  Orleans  and  found  that  there  was  a 
rebel  in  the  fiery  Englishman  as  well  as  a  lady-killer  (see postal,  pp.  179,  203,  212,  218). 
In  time  he  was  to  celebrate  sex  quite  as  much  as  Byron  or  Bulwer,  though,  for  the  most 
part,  in  a  different  way.  Compare  this  early  deliverance  on  romantic  affection  with  the 
following  passage  from  John  Burroughs's  "Walt  Whitman,  A  Study"  (pp.  194-195): 
"It  is  charged  against  Whitman  that  he  does  not  celebrate  love  at  all,  and  very  justly. 
He  has  no  purpose  to  celebrate  the  sentiment  of  love.  ...  Of  that  veiled  prurient 
suggestion  which  readers  so  delight  in — of  'bosoms  mutinously  fair,'  and  'the  soul- 
lingering  loops  of  perfumed  hair,'  as  one  of  our  latest  poets  puts  it — there  is  no  hint  in  his 
volume.  He  would  have  fallen  from  grace  the  moment  he  attempted  such  a  thing. 
.  .  .  From  Whitman's  point  of  view,  it  would  have  been  positively  immoral  for  him 
either  to  have  vied  with  the  lascivious  poets  in  painting  it  as  the  forbidden,  or  with  the 
sentimental  poets  in  depicting  it  as  a  charm.  .  .  .  Whitman  is  seldom  or  never  the 
poet  of  a  sentiment,  at  least  of  the  domestic  and  social  sentiments.  .  .  .  The  cosmic 
takes  the  place  of  the  idyllic;  the  begetter,  the  Adamic  man,  takes  the  place  of  the  lover; 
patriotism  takes  the  place  of  family  affection;  charity  takes  the  place  of  piety;  love  of 
kind  is  more  than  love  of  neighbour;  the  poet  and  the  artist  are  swallowed  up  in  the  seer 
and  the  prophet."  This  is  a  better  statement  of  the  fact  than  Whitman  himself  ever 
achieved  in  prose;  but  it  remains  to  inquire  whether  there  were  a  psychical  or  a  physio- 
logical necessity  in  the  poet's  equipment  such  as  to  compel  him  to  omit  from  the  ex- 
pression of  the  complete  life  of  an  "average  man"  elements  which  the  average  man 
hitherto  has  felt  to  be  both  beautiful  and  essential.  (See  I,  pp.  xlix-1,  112,  note  2, 
II,  pp.  94-97.)  The'present  sketch,  while  indicating  his  capacity  for  affection,  betrays 
also,  I  think,  the  bifurcation  of  his  sexual  nature  which  was  to  give  us,  in  the  same 
volume,  "Children  of  Adam"  and  "Calamus." 

'From  the  Long  Is/and  Farmer  (Jamaica),  July  20, 1 841. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  49 

Bromero,  with  his  clam-rake,  and  narrow-brimmed  straw  hat; 
Sefior  Cabinet,  with  sedate  face,  and  an  enormous  basket,  con- 
taining a  towel,  fishing  tackle,  and  incalculable  quantities  of 
provisions;  Captain  Sears,  with  his  usual  pleasant  look;  one  of 
the  Smith  family  with  a  never-failing  fund  of  good  humor; 
Kirbus,  with  his  gun,  breathing  destruction  to  snipe  and  sea- 
fowl  generally;  and  other  personages  whose  number  will  prevent 
their  being  immortalized  in  this  veracious  history. 

Having  first  stowed  our  persons  away  in  the  wagons  provided 
for  that  purpose,  we  started  for  the  shore,  fifteen  precious 
souls  in  all;  not  forgetting  to  place  in  safe  situations  various 
baskets,  kettles,  jugs,  bottles,  and  nondescript  vessels,  of  whose 
contents  we  knew  not  as  yet.  We  hoisted  the  American  flag  on  a 
clam-rake  handle,  and  elevated  it  in  the  air,  very  much  to  our 
own  pleasure  and  the  edification  no  doubt  of  all  patriotic  be- 
holders. Thus  riding  along  it  was  discovered  by  an  inquisitive 
member  of  our  party  that  one  of  us,  a  married  man,  had  come 
from  home  without  his  breakfast;  whereupon  an  inquiry  was 
instituted  that  resulted  in  bringing  out  the  astounding  fact  that 
every  married  man  in  the  company  was  in  the  like  predicament. 
An  evil-disposed  character  among  us  was  ungallant  enough  to 
say  that  the  fact  was  a  fair  commentary  on  matrimonial  com- 
fort. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  point  of  embarkation,  we  found  a 
tight  clean  boat,  all  ready  for  us,  with  Sailor  Bight  to  superin- 
tend the  navigation  of  the  same.  Having  perfectly  ensconced 
ourselves  therein,  by  no  means  forgetting  the  baskets,  jugs, 
&c,  afore-mentioned,  we  boldly  put  forth  into  the  stream  and 
committed  our  lives  to  the  mercy  of  the  wind  and  waves.  We 
reached  the  mouth  of  the  creek  with  no  adventures  of  any  im- 
portance, except  that  Kirbus  came  very  near  getting  a  wild  duck 
who  was  seen  foraging  on  the  waves  not  far  from  us;  it  would 
have  been  very  easy  to  have  got  him — if  Kirbus  had  shot  him. 
I  had  liked  to  have  forgot  mentioning  that  Sefior  Cabinet  got 
the  tail  of  his  black  coat  quite  wet  by  dragging  it  in  the  salt 
water,  as  he  was  seated  on  the  gunwale  of  the  boat. 

We  had  brought  a  musical  instrument  with  us,  and  accord- 
ingly in  due  time  we  proceeded  to  give  some  very  scientific  speci- 
mens of  the  concord  of  sweet  sounds.1  The  popular  melodies  of 
"Auld  Lang  Syne"  and  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  were  sung  with 
great  taste  and  effect.  Thus  the  time  passed  away  very  pleas- 
Si/ "The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  V,  I,  82.    - 


So  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

antly  until  we  arrived  at  the  beach;  when  some  of  us  dashing 
boldly  through  the  water  to  dry  land — and  the  more  effeminate 
being  carried  thither  on  the  back  of  Sailor  Bight — we  started 
forth  to  visit  the  other  side,  whereon  the  surf  comes  tumbling, 
like  lots  of  little  white  pigs  playing  upon  clean  white  straw. 
Before  we  went  thither,  I  must  not  forget  to  record,  we  were 
entertained  with  some  highly  exquisite  specimens  of  Shakes- 
pearian eloquence  by  one  of  our  company,  formerly  a  member  of 
the  "  Spouting  Club  "  and,  therefore  entitled  to  be  called  a  whaler. 

Having  arrived  at  the  surf,  a  portion  of  our  party  indulged 
themselves  in  the  luxury  of  a  bath  therein.  The  rest  returned  to 
the  boat,  and  forthwith  each,  arming  himself  with  a  clam-rake, 
did  valorously  set  to  work  a-scratching  up  the  sand  at  no  small 
rate.  After  a  while,  the  individual  before  spoken  of  as  belong- 
ing to  the  Smith  family,  not  feeling  contented  with  his  luck 
where  he  was,  did,  in  company  with  another  discontented  per- 
sonage, betake  himself  off  in  the  little  skiff  which  had  accom- 
panied our  little  vessel.  He  rowed  most  manfully,  for  half  a 
mile,  to  a  place  where  he  thought  he  could  better  himself.  By 
dint  of  pulling  and  hauling  there  nearly  an  hour,  he  managed  to 
catch  one  clam,  and  then  was  content  to  return  from  whence  he 
came.  Thus  was  exemplified  in  the  fortunes  of  this  Smith  in- 
dividual, the  truth  of  the  old  maxim:  "Let  well  enough  alone." 

But  my  limits  will  not  allow  me  to  expatiate  upon  the  events 
of  this  interesting  voyage.  I  shall  therefore  not  say  a  word  about 
the  astonishing  appetite  of  Senor  Cabinet;  or  the  fun  we  had  in 
Bromero's  stories;  or  how  a  hat  belonging  to  one  of  our  chaps 
blew  off  into  the  wide  waters  and  was  recovered  again  by  the 
Smith  individual,  but  with  the  loss  of  a  sort  of  a  short-necked  pipe, 
which  had  for  many  days  before  been  safely  kept  therein.  Nor 
shall  I  tell  how  we  cut  up  divers  clams  into  small  bits,  and  thrust 
the  said  bits  upon  fish-hooks,  and  let  down  the  said  hooks  by  long 
lines  into  the  water,  and  then  sat  patiently  holding  the  lines,  in 
the  vain  hope  of  nabbing  some  stray  members  of  the  finny  tribe. 

Passing  over  all  these,  and  other  like  important  matters,  I 
shall  wind  up  this  most  accurate  account  by  saying  that  we  re- 
turned home  perfectly  safe  in  body,  sound  in  limb,  much  re- 
freshed in  soul,  and  in  perfect  good  humor  and  satisfaction 
one  with  another. 

P.S. — I  came  very  near  forgetting  to  say,  that  some  of  us 
had  our  faces  highly  improved  in  color,  and  that  Kirbus,  and 
others  of  the   married   men,   after  we   came   ashore,   bought 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  51 

several  shillings'  worth  of  eels  and  clams,  probably  in  order  to 
ward  off  the  danger  that  would  inevitably  have  followed  their 
return  empty-handed. 


[REPORT  OF  WALTER  WHITMAN'S  SPEECH,  IN  THE 
PARK,  IN  NEW  YORK  CITY,  JULY  29,  1841]1 

After  touching  upon  various  points  of  democratic  doctrine 
and  policy,  Mr.  Whitman  concluded  as  follows:  Meetings 
have  been  held  by  our  people  in  various  sections,  to  nominate 
a  candidate  for  the  next  presidency.  My  fellow  citizens:  let 
this  be  an  afterthought.  I  beseech  you  to  entertain  a  noble 
and  more  elevated  idea  of  our  aim  and  struggles  as  a  party  than 
to  suppose  that  we  are  striving  [to  raise]  this  or  that  man  to 
power.  We  are  battling  for  great  principles — for  mighty  and 
glorious  truths.  I  would  scorn  to  exert  even  my  humble 
efforts  for  the  best  democratic  candidate  that  ever  was  nomi- 
nated, in  himself  alone.  It  is  our  creed — our  doctrine,  not  a  man 
or  set  of  men,  that  we  seek  to  build  up.  Let  us  attend  then, 
in  the  meantime,  to  measures,  policy  and  doctrine,  and  leave  to 
future  consideration  the  selection  of  the  agent  to  carry  our  plans 
into  effect.2  My  firm  conviction  is  that  the  next  democratic 
candidate,  whoever  he  may  be,  will  be  carried  into  power  on  the 
wings  of  a  mighty  re-action.  The  guardian  spirit,  the  good 
genius  who  has  attended  us  ever  since  the  days  of  Jefferson, 
has  not  now  forsaken  us.  I  can  almost  fancy  myself  able  to 
pierce  the  darkness  of  the  future  and  behold  her  looking  down 
upon  us  with  those  benignant  smiles  she  wore  in  1828,  '32,  and 
'36*  Again  will  she  hover  over  us,  amid  the  smoke  and  din  of 
battle,  and  leading  us  to  our  wonted  victory,  through  "the 
sober  second  thought  of  the  people. "4 

!From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  April  6,  1847,  where  it  is  quoted  from  the  New  Era 
of  July  30,  1841,  to  refute  the  charge  made  by  the  Brooklyn  Advertizer,  that  in  the 
summer  of  1 841  Whitman  had  been  a  Whig.     (See  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II, 

PP-  3-7-) 

The  New  Era  estimated  that  15,000  persons  had  attended  the  meeting;  the  Evening 
Post  put  it  at  8,000  to  12,000.    There  were  several  speakers. 

1  Cf.  post,  I,  p.  260. 

•This  prophecy  was  fulfilled  in  the  election  three  years  later,  in  which  Polk,  who  in 
1840  had  received  but  a  single  vote  in  the  electoral  college,  defeated  Henry  Clay  by  a 
vote  of  170-105. 

*"I  consider  biennial  elections  as  a  security  that  the  sober  second  thought  of  the  people 
shall  be  law." — Fisher  Ames:  "On  Biennial  Elections,"  1788.  (Bartlett's  "Familiar 
Quotations,"  10th  edition,  p.  288.)     The  phrase  was  particularly  common  in  the  1840*3. 


52     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

BERVANCE:  OR,  FATHER  AND  SON1 

Almost  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  there  is  more  truth  than 
fiction  in  the  following  story.  Whatever  of  the  latter  element 
may  have  been  added,  it  is  for  the  purpose  of  throwing  that 
disguise  around  the  real  facts  of  the  former  which  is  due  to  the 
feelings  of  a  respectable  family.  The  principal  parties  alluded 
to  have  left  the  stage  of  life  many  years  since;  but  I  am  well 
aware  there  are  not  a  few  yet  alive  who,  should  they,  as  is  very 
probable,  read  this  narration,  will  have  their  memories  carried 
back  to  scenes  and  persons  of  much  more  substantial  existence 
than  the  mere  creation  of  an  author's  fancy.  I  have  given  it  the 
form  of  a  confession  in  the  first  person,  partly  for  the  sake  of 
convenience,  partly  of  simplicity,  but  chiefly  because  such  was 
the  form  in  which  the  main  incidents  were  a  long  time  ago  re- 
peated to  me  by  my  own  informant.  It  is  a  strange  story — the 
true  solution  of  which  will  probably  be  found  in  the  supposition 
of  a  certain  degree  of  unsoundness  of  mind,  on  the  one  part, 
manifesting  itself  in  the  morbid  and  unnatural  paternal  anti- 
pathy; and  of  its  reproduction  on  the  other,  by  the  well  known 
though  mysterious  law  of  hereditary  transmission.     W.  W. 


My  appointed  number  of  years  has  now  almost  sped.  Before 
I  sink  to  that  repose  in  the  bosom  of  the  great  common  mother, 
which  I  have  so  long  and  earnestly  coveted,  I  will  disclose  the 
story  of  a  life  which  one  fearful  event  has  made,  through  all  its 
later  stages,  a  continued  stretch  of  wretchedness  and  remorse. 
There  may  possibly  be  some  parents  to  whom  it  may  serve  a  not 
useless  lesson. 

^rom  the  Democratic  Review,  December,  1 841,  Vol.  IX,  pp.  560-568. 

This  story,  no  less  than  such  fanciful  ones  as  "The  Angel  of  Tears"  (post,  I,  pp.  83-86), 
and  "Eris;  A  Spirit  Record"  (post,  I,  pp.  86-89),  would  seem  to  show  that  Whitman  had 
come  under  the  influence  of  Poe,  for  whose  Broadway  Journal  he  later  contributed  a  brief 
sketch  on  American  music,  post,  I,  pp.  104-106.  However,  instead  of  being  the  creation 
of  a  morbid  imagination,  the  present  story  may  have  been  told  to  the  author  in  the  man- 
ner stated,  for  he  seldom  claims  complete  originality  for  his  plots  (cf.  "Complete 
Prose,"  p.  196).  If  so,  it  argues  his  ability  in  early  youth  to  inspire  a  high  degree  of 
confidence.  Whatever  the  origin  of  the  plot,  Whitman's  interest  in  it  must  have  been 
stimulated  by  the  fact  that  two  of  his  own  brothers  were  subnormal  mentally.  One, 
Edward,  was  at  this  time  a  six-year-old  imbecile,  while  his  brother  Jesse,  a  year  or  two 
older  than  Walt,  was  to  die  in  the  King's  County  Lunatic  Asylum  in  1870.  It  is  not 
clear,  however,  that  the  insanity  of  the  elder  brother  was  congenital.  There  is  a  letter 
in  the  Bucke  collection  written  by  Jefferson  Whitman  to  Walt  attributing  Jesse's  men- 
tal disorder  to  his  own  follies. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  53 

I  was  born,  and  have  always  lived,  in  one  of  the  largest  of  our 
American  cities.  The  circumstances  of  my  family  were  easy; 
I  received  a  good  education,  was  intended  by  my  father  for 
mercantile  business,  and  upon  attaining  the  proper  age,  ob- 
tained from  him  a  small  but  sufficient  capital;  and  in  the  course 
of  a  few  years  from  thus  starting,  found  myself  sailing  smoothly 
on  the  tide  of  fortune.  I  married;  and,  possessed  of  independ- 
ence and  domestic  comfort,  my  life  was  a  happy  one  indeed. 
Time  passed  on;  we  had  several  children;  when  about  twenty 
years  after  our  marriage  my  wife  died.  It  was  a  grievous  blow 
to  me,  for  I  loved  her  well;  and  the  more  so  of  late,  because  that 
a  little  while  before,  at  short  intervals,  I  had  lost  both  my 
parents. 

Finding  myself  now  at  that  period  of  life  when  ease  and 
retirement  are  peculiarly  soothing,  I  purchased  an  elegant  house 
in  a  fashionable  part  of  the  city;  where,  surrounding  myself  and 
my  family  with  every  resource  that  abundance  and  luxury  can 
afford  for  happiness,  I  settled  myself  for  life — a  life  which  seemed 
to  promise  every  prospect  of  a  long  enjoyment.  I  had  my 
sons  and  daughters  around  me;  and,  objecting  to  the  boarding- 
school  system,  I  had  their  education  conducted  under  my  own 
roof,  by  a  private  tutor  who  resided  with  us.  He  was  a  mild, 
gentlemanly  man,  with  nothing  remarkable  about  his  personal 
appearance,  unless  his  eyes  might  be  called  so.  They  were  gray 
— large,  deep,  'and  having  a  softly  beautiful  expression  that 
I  have  never  seen  in  any  others;  and  which,  while  they  at 
times  produced  an  extraordinary  influence  upon  me,  and  yet 
dwell  so  vividly  in  my  memory,  no  words  that  I  can  use  could 
exactly  describe.     The  name  of  the  tutor  was  Alban. 

Of  my  children,  only  two  were  old  enough  to  be  considered 
anything  more  than  boys  and  girls.  The  eldest  was  my  favorite. 
In  countenance  he  was  like  the  mother,  whose  first-born  he  was; 
and  when  she  died,  the  mantle  of  my  affections  seemed  trans- 
ferred to  him,  with  a  sadly  undue  and  unjust  degree  of  preference 
over  the  rest.  My  second  son,  Luke,  was  bold,  eccentric,  and 
high-tempered.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  notwithstanding  a 
decided  personal  resemblance  to  myself,  he  never  had  his 
father's  love.  Indeed,  it  was  only  by  a  strong  effort  that 
I  restrained  and  concealed  a  positive  aversion.  Occasions 
seemed  continually  to  arise  wherein  the  youth  felt  disposed  to 
thwart  me,  and  make  himself  disagreeable  to  me.  Every  time 
I  saw  him,  I  was  conscious  of  something  evil  in  his  conduct  or 


54  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

disposition.  I  have  since  thought  that  a  great  deal  of  all  this 
existed  only  in  my  own  imagination,  warped  and  darkened  as  it 
was,  and  disposed  to  look  upon  him  with  an  "evil  eye."  Be 
that  as  it  may,  I  was  several  times  made  very  angry  by  what  I 
felt  sure  were  intended  to  be  wilful  violations  of  my  rule,  and 
contemptuous  taunts  toward  me  for  that  partiality  to  his 
brother  which  I  could  not  deny.  In  the  course  of  time,  I  grew 
to  regard  the  heedless  boy  with  a  feeling  almost  amounting — 
I  shudder  to  make  the  confession — to  hatred.  Perhaps,  for  he 
was  very  cunning,  he  saw  it,  and,  conscious  that  he  was  wronged, 
took  the  only  method  of  revenge  that  was  in  his  power. 

I  have  said  that  he  was  eccentric.  The  term  is  hardly  strong 
enough  to  mark  what  actually  was  the  case  with  him.  He 
occasionally  had  spells  which  approached  very  nearly  to  com- 
plete derangement.  My  family  physician  spoke  learnedly  of  reg- 
imen, and  drugs,  and  courses  of  treatment  which,  if  carefully 
persevered  in,  might  remove  the  peculiarity.  He  said,  too, 
that  cases  of  that  kind  were  dangerous,  frequently  terminating 
in  confirmed  insanity.  But  I  laughed  at  him,  and  told  him  his 
fears  were  idle.  Had  it  been  my  favorite  son  instead  of  Luke, 
I  do  not  think  I  would  have  passed  by  the  matter  so  contentedly. 

Matters  stood  as  I  have  described  them  for  several  years. 
Alban,  the  tutor,  continued  with  us;  as  fast  as  one  [child]  grew 
up,  so  as  to  be  beyond  the  need  of  his  instructions,  another  ap- 
peared in  the  vacant  place.  The  whole  family  loved  him  dearly, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  he  repaid  their  affection,  for  he  was  a 
gentle-hearted  creature,  and  easily  won.  Luke  and  he  seemed 
great  friends.  I  blush  now  as  I  acknowledge  that  this  was  the 
only  thing  by  which  Alban  excited  my  displeasure. 

I  shall  pass  over  many  circumstances  that  occurred  in  my  fam- 
ily, having  no  special  relation  to  the  event  which,  in  the  present 
narrative,  I  have  chiefly  in  view.  One  of  my  favorite  amuse- 
ments was  afforded  by  the  theatre.  I  kept  a  box  of  my  own, 
and  frequently  attended,  often  giving  my  family  permission  also 
to  be  present.  Luke  I  seldom  allowed  to  go.  The  excuse  that 
I  assigned  to  myself  and  to  others  was,  that  he  was  of  excitable 
temperament,  and  the  acting  would  be  injurious  to  his  brain.  I 
fear  the  privilege  was  withheld  quite  as  much  from  vindictive- 
ness  toward  him,  and  dislike  of  his  presence  on  my  own  part. 
So  Luke  himself  evidently  thought  and  felt.  On  a  certain 
evening — (were  it  last  night,  my  recollection  of  it  all  could  not 
be  more  distinct) — a  favorite  performer  was  to  appear  in  a  new 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  55 

piece;  and  it  so  happened  that  every  one  of  us  had  arranged  to 
attend — every  one  but  Luke.  He  besought  me  earnestly  that 
he  might  go  with  the  rest — reminded  me  how  rarely  such  favors 
were  granted  him — and  even  persuaded  Alban  to  speak  to  me  on 
the  subject. 

"Your  son,"  said  the  tutor,  "seems  so  anxious  to  partake  of 
this  pleasure,  and  has  set  his  mind  so  fully  upon  it,  that  I  really 
fear,  sir,  your  refusal  would  excite  him  more  than  the  sight  of 
the  play." 

"I  have  adopted  a  rule,"  said  I,  "and  once  swerving  from  it 
makes  no  rule  at  all." 

"Mr.  Bervance  will  excuse  me,"  he  still  continued,  "if  I  yet 
persevere  in  asking  that  you  will  allow  Luke  this  indulgence, 
at  least  for  this  one  evening.  I  am  anxious  and  disturbed  about 
the  boy — and  should  even  consider  it  as  a  great  personal  favor 
to  myself." 

"No,  sir,"  I  answered,  abruptly,  "it  is  useless  to  continue 
this  conversation.  The  young  man  cannot  go,  either  from 
considerations  of  his  pleasure  or  yours." 

Alban  made  no  reply;  he  colored,  bowed  slightly,  and  I 
felt  his  eye  fixed  upon  me  with  an  expression  I  did  not  at  all 
like,  though  I  could  not  analyze  it.  I  was  conscious,  however, 
that  I  had  said  too  much;  and  if  the  tutor  had  not  at  that  mo- 
ment left  the  room,  I  am  sure  I  should  have  apologized  for  my 
rudeness. 

We  all  went  to  the  theatre.  The  curtain  had  hardly  risen, 
when  my  attention  was  attracted  by  some  one  in  the  tier  above, 
and  right  off  against  my  box,  coming  noisily  in,  talking  loudly, 
and  stumbling  along,  apparently  on  purpose  to  draw  the  eyes 
of  the  spectators.  As  he  threw  himself  into  the  front  seat,  and 
the  glare  of  the  lamps  fell  upon  his  face,  I  could  hardly  believe 
my  eyes  when  I  saw  it  was  Luke.  A  second  and  a  third  ob- 
servation were  necessary  to  convince  me.  There  he  sat,  in- 
deed. He  looked  over  to  where  I  was  seated,  and  while  my 
sight  was  riveted  upon  him  in  unbounded  astonishment,  he 
deliberately  rose — raised  his  hand  to  his  head — lifted  his  hat, 
and  bowed  low  and  long — a  cool,  sarcastic  smile  playing  on  his 
features  all  the  time — and  finally  breaking  into  an  actual  laugh, 
which  even  reached  my  ears.  Nay — will  it  be  believed! — the 
foolish  youth  had  even  the  effrontery  to  bring  down  one  of  the 
wretched  outcasts  who  are  met  with  there,  and  seat  himself 
full  in  our  view — he  laughing  and  talking  with  his  companion 


56  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

so  much  to  the  annoyance  of  the  house  that  a  police  officer  was 
actually  obliged  to  interfere!  I  felt  as  [if]  I  should  burst 
with  mortification  and  anger. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  tragedy  we  went  home.  Reader, 
I  cannot  dwell  minutely  on  what  followed.  At  a  late  hour  my 
rebellious  boy  returned.  Seemingly  bent  upon  irritating  me  to 
the  utmost,  he  came  with  perfect  nonchalance  into  the  room 
where  I  was  seated.  The  remainder  of  that  night  is  like  a  hate- 
ful dream  in  my  memory,  distinct  and  terrible,  though  shadowy. 
I  recollect  the  sharp,  cutting,  but  perfectly  calm  rejoinders  he 
made  to  all  my  passionate  invectives  against  his  conduct.  They 
worked  me  up  to  a  phrensy,  and  he  smiled  all  the  more  calmly 
the  while.  Half  maddened  by  my  rage,  I  seized  him  by  the 
collar,  and  shook  him.  My  pen  almost  refuses  to  add — but 
justice  to  myself  demands  it — the  Son  felled  the  Father  to  the 
earth  with  a  blow!  Some  blood  even  flowed  from  a  slight 
wound  caused  by  striking  my  head,  as  I  fell  against  a  projecting 
corner  of  furniture — and  the  hair  that  it  matted  together  was 
gray! 

What  busy  devil  was  it  that  stepped  noiselessly  round  the  bed, 
to  which  I  immediately  retired,  and  kept  whispering  in  my  ears 
all  that  endless  night?  Sleep  forsook  me.  Thoughts  of  a  deep 
revenge — a  fearful  redress — but  it  seemed  to  me  hardly  more 
fearful  than  the  crime — worked  within  my  brain.  Then  I 
turned,  and  tried  to  rest,  but  vainly.  Some  spirit  from  the 
abodes  of  ruin  held  up  the  provocation  and  the  punishment  con- 
tinually before  my  mind's  eye.  The  wretched  youth  had  his 
strange  fits:  those  fits  were  so  thinly  divided  from  insanity  that 
who  should  undertake  to  define  the  difference?  And  for  in- 
sanity was  there  not  a  prison  provided,  with  means  and  appli- 
ances, confinement,  and,  if  need  be,  chains  and  scourges?  For 
a  few  months  it  would  be  nothing  more  than  wholesome  that  an 
unnatural  child,  a  brutal  assaulter  of  his  parent,  should  taste  the 
discipline  of  such  a  place.  Before  my  eyes  closed,  my  mind  had 
resolved  on  the  scheme — a  scheme  so  cruel  that,  as  I  think  of  it 
now,  my  senses  are  lost  in  wonder  that  any  one  less  than  a  fiend 
could  have  resolved  to  undertake  it. 

The  destinies  of  evil  favored  me.  The  very  next  morning 
Luke  had  one  of  his  strange  turns,  brought  on,  undoubtedly,  by 
the  whirl  and  agitation  of  the  previous  day  and  night.  With  the 
smooth  look  and  quiet  tread  with  which  I  doubt  not  Judas 
looked  and  trod,  I  went  into  his  room  and  enjoined  the  attend- 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  57 

ants  to  be  very  careful  of  him.  I  found  him  more  violently 
affected  than  at  any  former  period.  He  did  not  know  me;  I  felt 
glad  that  it  was  so,  for  my  soul  shrank  at  its  own  intentions,  and 
I  could  not  have  met  his  conscious  eye.  At  the  close  of  the 
day,  I  sent  for  a  physician;  not  him  who  generally  attended  my 
family,  but  one  of  those  obsequious  gentlemen  who  bend  and 
are  pliant  like  the  divining  rod,  that  is  said  to  be  attracted  by 
money.  I  sent,  too,  for  some  of  the  officers  of  the  lunatic  asy- 
lum. Two  long  hours  we  were  in  conversation.  I  was  sorry,  I 
told  them,  very  sorry;  it  was  a  dreadful  grief  to  me;  the  gentle- 
men could  not  but  sympathize  in  my  distress;  but  I  felt  myself 
called  upon  to  yield  my  private  feelings.  I  felt  it  best  for  my 
unhappy  son  to  be,  for  a  time  at  least,  removed  to  the  customary 
place  for  those  laboring  under  his  miserable  disease.  I  will 
not  say  what  other  measures  I  took — what  tears  I  shed.  Oh, 
to  what  a  depth  may  that  man  be  sunk  who  once  gives  bad 
passions  their  swing!  The  next  day,  Luke  was  taken  from  my 
dwelling  to  the  asylum,  and  confined  in  what  was  more  like  a 
dungeon  than  a  room  for  one  used  to  all  the  luxurious  comforts 
of  life. 

Days  rolled  on.  I  do  not  think  any  one  suspected  aught  of 
what  really  was  the  case.  Evident  as  it  had  been  that  Luke 
was  not  a  favorite  of  mine,  no  person  ever  thought  it  pos- 
sible that  a  father  could  place  his  son  in  a  mad-house  from 
motives  of  any  other  description  than  a  desire  to  have  him 
cured.  The  children  were  very  much  hurt  at  their  brother's 
unfortunate  situation.  Alban  said  nothing;  but  I  knew  that 
he  sorrowed  in  secret.  He  frequently  sought,  sometimes  with 
success,  to  obtain  entrance  to  Luke;  and  after  a  while  began  to 
bring  me  favorable  reports  of  the  young  man's  recovery.  One 
day,  about  three  weeks  after  the  event  at  the  theatre,  the  tutor 
came  to  me  with  great  satisfaction  on  his  countenance.  He 
had  just  returned  from  Luke,  who  was  now  as  sane  as  ever. 
Alban  said  he  could  hardly  get  away  from  the  young  man,  who 
conjured  him  to  remain,  for  solitude  there  was  a  world  of  terror 
and  agony.  Luke  had  besought  him,  with  tears  streaming 
down  his  cheeks,  to  ask  me  to  let  him  be  taken  from  that  place. 
A  few  days  longer  residence  there,  he  said,  a  conscious  witness 
of  its  horrors,  and  he  should  indeed  be  its  fit  inmate  for  ever. 

The  next  morning  I  sent  private  instructions  to  the  asylum, 
to  admit  no  person  in  Luke's  apartment  without  an  order  from 
me.     Alban  was  naturally  very  much  surprised,  as  day  after 


58  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

day  elapsed  and  I  took  no  measures  to  have  my  son  brought 
home.  Perhaps,  at  last,  he  began  to  suspect  the  truth;  for  in 
one  of  the  interviews  we  had  on  the  subject  those  mild  and 
beautiful  eyes  of  his  caused  mine  to  sink  before  them,  and  he 
expressed  a  determination,  dictated  as  he  said  by  an  imperious 
duty,  in  case  I  did  not  see  fit  to  liberate  the  youth,  to  take  some 
decided  steps  himself.  I  talked  as  smoothly  and  as  sorrow- 
fully as  possible — but  it  was  useless. 

"My  young  friend,  I  am  sure,"  said  he,  "has  received  all  the 
benefits  he  can  possibly  derive  from  the  institution,  and  I  do 
not  hesitate  to  say,  any  longer  continuance  there  may  be  fol- 
lowed by  dangerous — even  fatal — consequences.  I  cannot  but 
think,"  and  the  steadfast  look  of  that  gray  eye  settled- £/  me, 
as  if  it  would  pierce  my  inmost  soul,  "that  Mr.  Bervance  desires 
to  see  his  unlucky  child  away  from  so  fearful  an  abode;  and  I 
have  no  doubt  that  I  shall  have  his  approval  in  any  proper 
and  necessary  measures  for  that  purpose." 

I  cursed  him  in  my  heart,  but  I  felt  that  I  had  to  submit. 
So  I  told  him  that  if  in  two  days  more  Luke  did  not  have  any 
relapse,  I  would  then  consider  it  safe  to  allow  him  to  be  brought 
home. 

The  swift  time  flew  and  brought  the  evening  of  the  next  day. 
I  was  alone  in  the  house,  all  the  family  having  gone  to  a  con- 
cert, which  I  declined  attending,  for  music  was  not  then  suited 
to  my  mood.  The  young  people  stayed  later  than  I  had  ex- 
pected; I  walked  the  floor  till  I  was  tired,  and  then  sat  down 
on  a  chair.  It  was  a  parlor  at  the  back  of  the  house,  with  long, 
low  windows  opening  into  the  garden.  There  and  then,  in  the 
silence  of  the  place,  I  thought  for  the  first  time  of  the  full  extent 
of  the  guilt  I  had  lately  been  committing.  It  pressed  upon  me, 
and  I  could  not  hide  from  my  eyes  its  dread  enormity.  But  it 
became  too  painful,  and  I  rose,  all  melted  with  agonized  yet 
tender  emotions,  and  determined  to  love  my  injured  boy  from 
that  hour  as  Father  should  love  Son.  In  the  act  of  rising,  my 
eyes  were  involuntarily  cast  toward  a  large  mirror,  on  the 
chimney-piece.  Was  it  a  reflection  of  my  own  conscience,  or  a 
horrid  reality?  My  blood  curdled  as  I  saw  there  an  image  of 
the  form  of  my  son — my  cruelly  treated  Luke — but  oh,  how 
ghastly,  how  deathly  a  picture!  I  turned,  and  there  was  the 
original  of  the  semblance.  Just  inside  one  of  the  windows  stood 
the  form,  the  pallid,  unwashed,  tangly-haired,  rag-covered 
form,  of  Luke  Bervance.     And  that  look  of  his — there  was  no 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  59 

deception  there — it  was  the  vacant,  glaring,  wild  look  of  a 
maniac. 

"Ho,  ho!" 

As  I  listened,  I  could  hardly  support  myself,  for  uncontroll- 
able horror. 

"My  son,  do  you  not  know  me?  I  am  your  father,"  I 
gasped. 

"You  are  Flint  Serpent.  Do  you  know  me,  Flint?  A  little 
owl  screeched  in  my  ear,  as  I  came  through  the  garden,  and 
said  you  would  be  glad  to  see  me,  and  then  laughed  a  hooting 
laugh.  Speak  low,"  he  continued  in  a  whisper:  "big  eyes  and 
bony  hands  are  out  there,  and  they  would  take  me  back  again. 
But  you  will  strike  at  them,  Flint,  and  scatter  them,  will  you 
not?  Sting  them  with  poison;  and  when  they  try  to  seize  me 
knock  them  down  with  your  heart,  will  you  not?" 

"Oh,  Christ!  what  a  sight  is  this!"  burst  from  me,  as  I  sank 
back  into  the  chair  from  which  I  had  risen,  faint  with  agony. 
The  lunatic  started  as  I  spoke,  and  probably  something  like  a 
recollection  lighted  up  his  brain  for  a  moment.  He  cast  a  fierce 
glance  at  me. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  he  said,  with  a  grim  smile;  "it  is  of  your  own 
doing.  You  placed  me  in  a  mad  house.  I  was  not  mad;  but 
when  I  woke,  and  breathed  that  air,  and  heard  the  sounds,  and 
saw  what  is  to  be  seen  there — Oh,  now  I  am  mad !  Curse  you ! 
it  is  your  work.     Curse  you!     Curse  you!" 

I  clapped  my  hands  to  my  ears,  to  keep  out  the  appalling 
sounds  that  seemed  to  freeze  my  very  blood.  When  I  took 
them  away,  I  heard  the  noise  of  the  street  door  opening,  and  my 
children's  voices  sounding  loud  and  happily.  Their  maniac 
brother  heard  them  also.     He  sprang  to  the  window. 

"Hark!"  he  said;  "they  are  after  me,  Flint.  Keep  them 
back.  Rather  than  go  there  again,  I  would  jump  into  a  raging 
furnace  of  fire!"  He  glided  swiftly  into  the  garden,  and  I 
heard  his  voice  in  the  distance.  I  did  not  move,  for  every  nerve 
seemed  paralyzed. 

"Keep  them  back,  Flint!     It  is  all  your  work!     Curse  you!" 

When  my  family  came  into  the  apartment,  they  found  me  in 
a  deep  swound,  which  I  fully  recovered  from  only  at  the  end  of 
many  minutes. 

My  incoherent  story,  the  night,  and  the  strangeness  of  the 
whole  affair,  prevented  any  pursuit  that  evening,  though  Alban 
would  have  started  on  one  if  he  had  had  any  assistance  or 


60  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

clue.  The  next  morning,  the  officers  of  the  asylum  came  in 
search  of  the  runaway.  He  had  contrived  a  most  cunning  plan 
of  escape,  and  his  departure  was  not  found  out  till  daylight. 

My  story  is  nearly  ended.  We  never  saw  or  heard  of  the 
hapless  Luke  more.  Search  was  extensively  made,  and  kept 
up  for  a  long  time;  but  no  tidings  were  elicited  of  his  fate. 
Alban  was  the  most  persevering  of  those  who  continued  the  task, 
even  when  it  became  hopeless.  He  inserted  advertisements  in 
the  newspapers,  sent  emissaries  all  over  the  country,  had  hand- 
bills widely  distributed,  offering  a  large  reward;  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  The  doom,  whatever  it  was,  of  the  wretched  young 
man  is  shrouded  in  a  mantle  of  uncertainty  as  black  as  a  veil  of 
the  outer  darkness  in  which  his  form  had  disappeared  on  that 
last  memorable  night;  and  in  all  likelihood  it  will  now  never  be 
known  to  mortals. 

A  great  many  years  have  gone  by  since  these  events.  To 
the  eyes  of  men,  my  life  and  feelings  have  seemed  in  no  respect 
different  from  those  of  thousands  of  others.  I  have  mixed  with 
company — laughed  and  talked — eaten  and  drunk;  and,  now 
that  the  allotted  term  is  closing,  must  prepare  to  lay  myself  in 
the  grave.  I  say  I  have  lived  many  years  since  then,  and  have 
laughed  and  talked.  Let  no  one  suppose,  however,  that  time 
has  banished  the  phantoms  of  my  busy  thoughts  and  allowed 
me  to  be  happy.  Down  in  the  inward  chamber  of  my  soul 
there  has  been  a  mirror — large,  and  very  bright.  It  has  pic- 
tured, for  the  last  thirty  years,  a  shape,  wild  and  haggard,  and 
with  tangly  hair — the  shape  of  my  maniac  son.  Often,  in  the 
midst  of  society,  in  the  public  street,  at  my  own  table,  and  in 
the  silent  watches  of  the  night,  that  picture  stands  out  in 
glaring  brightness;  and,  without  a  tongue,  tells  me  that  it  is 
all  my  work,  and  repeats  that  terrible  cursing  which,  the  last 
time  the  tyrant  and  victim  stood  face  to  face  together,  rang 
from  the  lips  of  the  Son,  and  fell  like  a  knell  of  death  on  the 
ear  of  the  Father. 


THE  TOMB-BLOSSOMS1 

A  pleasant,  fair-sized  country  village — a  village  embosomed 
in  trees,  with  old  churches,  one  tavern,  kept  by  a  respectable 

*From  the  Democratic  Review,  January,  1842,  Vol.  X,  pp.  62-68.  Reprinted  in 
James  J.  Brenton's  "Voices  from  the  Press,"  1850,  and,  with  illustrations,  in  a  Phila- 
delphia paper,  probably  in  1892. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  61 

widow,  long,  single-storied  farm-houses,  their  roofs  mossy,  and 
their  chimneys  smoke-blacked — a  village  with  much  grass,  and 
shrubbery,  and  no  mortar  nor  bricks,  nor  pavements,  nor  gas — 
no  newness:  that  is  the  place  for  him  who  wishes  life  in  its  flavor 
and  its  bloom.  Until  of  late,  my  residence  has  been  in  such  a 
place. 

Men  of  cities!  what  is  there  in  all  your  boast  of  pleasure — 
your  fashions,  parties,  balls,  and  theatres — compared  to  the 
simplest  of  the  delights  we  country  folk  enjoy?1  Our  pure  air, 
making  the  blood  swell  and  leap  with  buoyant  health;  our 
labor  and  our  exercise;  our  freedom  from  the  sickly  vices  that 
taint  the  town;  our  not  being  racked  with  notes  due,  or  the 
fluctuations  of  prices,  or  the  breaking  of  banks;  our  manners  of 
sociality,  expanding  the  heart  and  reacting  with  a  wholesome 
effect  on  the  body; — can  anything  which  citizens  possess  balance 
these? 

One  Saturday,  after  paying  a  few  days'  visit  at  New  York, 
I  returned  to  my  quarters  in  the  country  inn.  The  day  was  hot, 
and  my  journey  a  disagreeable  one.  I  had  been  forced  to  stir 
myself  beyond  comfort,  and  dispatch  my  affairs  quickly,  for  fear 
of  being  left  by  the  cars.  As  it  was,  I  arrived  panting  and  cov- 
ered with  sweat,  just  as  they  were  about  to  start.  Then  for 
many  miles  I  had  to  bear  the  annoyance  of  the  steam-engine 
smoke;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  vehicles  kept  swaying  to 
and  fro  on  the  track,  with  a  more  than  usual  motion,  on  purpose 
to  distress  my  jaded  limbs.  Out  of  humor  with  myself  and 
everything  around  me  when  I  came  to  my  travel's  end,  I  refused 
to  partake  of  the  comfortable  supper  which  my  landlady  had 
prepared  for  me;  and  rejoining  to  the  good  woman's  look  of 
wonder  at  such  an  unwonted  event,  and  her  kind  inquiries 
about  my  health,  with  a  sullen  silence,  I  took  my  lamp,  and 
went  my  way  to  my  room.  Tired  and  head-throbbing,  in  less 
than  half  a  score  of  minutes  after  I  threw  myself  on  my  bed  I 
was  steeped  in  the  soundest  slumber. 

When  I  awoke,  every  vein  and  nerve  felt  fresh  and  free. 
Soreness  and  irritation  had  been  swept  away,  as  it  were,  with 
the  curtains  of  night;  and  the  accustomed  tone  had  returned 
again.  I  arose  and  threw  open  my  window.  Delicious!  It 
was  a  calm,  bright  Sabbath  morning  in  May.     The  dew-drops 

1This  phrasing,  taken  with  the  sentiment  expressed  in  "Young  Grimes,"  infra,pp.  3-4, 
may  indicate  that  the  sketch  was  originally  written  while  Whitman  was  living  on  the 
Island. 


62      ,       THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

glittered  on  the  grass;  the  fragrance  of  the  apple-blossoms  which 
covered  the  trees  floated  up  to  me;  and  the  notes  of  a  hundred 
birds  discoursed  music  to  my  ear.  By  the  rays  just  shooting  up 
in  the  eastern  verge,  I  knew  that  the  sun  would  be  risen  in  a 
moment.  I  hastily  dressed  myself,  performed  my  ablutions, 
and  sallied  forth  to  take  a  morning  walk. 

Sweet,  yet  sleepy  scene !  No  one  seemed  stirring.  The  placid 
influence  of  the  day  was  even  now  spread  around,  quieting 
everything,  and  hallowing  everything.  I  sauntered  slowly 
onward,  with  my  hands  folded  behind  me.  I  passed  round  the 
edge  of  the  hill,  on  the  rising  elevation  and  top  of  which  was  a 
burial-ground.  On  my  left,  through  an  opening  in  the  trees,  I 
could  see  at  some  distance  the  ripples  of  our  beautiful  bay;  on  my 
right,  was  the  large  and  ancient  field  for  the  dead.  I  stopped 
and  leaned  my  back  against  the  fence,  with  my  face  turned 
toward  the  white  marble  stones  a  few  rods  before  me.  All  I 
saw  was  far  from  new  to  me;  and  yet  I  pondered  upon  it.  The 
entrance  to  that  place  of  tombs  was  a  kind  of  arch — a  rough- 
hewn  but  no  doubt  hardy  piece  of  architecture  that  had  stood, 
winter  and  summer,  over  the  gate  there,  for  many,  many  years. 
O  fearful  arch!  if  there  were  for  thee  a  voice  to  utter  what  has 
passed  beneath  and  near  thee;  if  the  secrets  of  the  earthy  dwell- 
ing that  to  thee  are  known  could  be  by  thee  disclosed — whose 
ear  might  listen  to  the  appalling  story  and  its  possessor  not  go 
mad  with  terror! 

Thus  thought  I;  and,  strangely  enough,  such  imagining 
marred  not  in  the  least  the  sunny  brightness  which  spread  alike 
over  my  mind  and  over  the  landscape.  Involuntarily,  as  I 
mused,  my  look  was  cast  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  I  saw  a  figure 
moving.  Could  someone  beside  myself  be  out  so  early,  and 
among  the  tombs?  What  creature  odd  enough  in  fancy  to  find 
pleasure  there,  and  at  such  a  time?  Continuing  my  gaze,  I  saw 
that  the  figure  was  a  woman.  She  seemed  to  move  with  a  slow 
and  feeble  step,  passing  and  repassing  constantly  between  two 
and  the  same  graves,  which  were  within  half  a  rod  of  each  other. 
She  would  bend  down  and  appear  to  busy  herself  a  few  moments 
with  the  one;  then  she  would  rise  and  go  to  the  second,  and  bend 
there  and  employ  herself  as  at  the  first.  Then  to  the  former  one, 
and  then  to  the  second  again.  Occasionally  the  figure  would 
pause  a  moment,  and  stand  back  a  little,  and  look  steadfastly 
down  upon  the  graves,  as  if  to  see  whether  her  work  were  done 
well.     Thrice  I  saw  her  walk  with  a  tottering  gait,  and  stand 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  63 

midway  between  the  two,  and  look  alternately  at  each.  Then 
she  would  go  to  one  and  arrange  something,  and  come  back  to 
the  midway  place,  and  gaze  first  on  the  right  and  then  on  the 
left,  as  before.  The  figure  evidently  had  some  trouble  in  suiting 
things  to  her  mind.  Where  I  stood,  I  could  hear  no  noise  of 
her  footfalls;  nor  could  I  see  accurately  enough  to  tell  what  she 
was  doing.  Had  a  superstitious  man  beheld  the  spectacle,  he 
would  possibly  have  thought  that  some  spirit  of  the  dead, 
allowed  the  night  before  to  burst  its  cerements  and  wander 
forth  in  the  darkness,  had  been  belated  in  returning,  and  was 
now  perplexed  to  find  its  coffin-house  again. 

Curious  to  know  what  was  the  woman's  employment,  I  undid 
the  simple  fastenings  of  the  gate,  and  walked  over  the  rank 
wet  grass  toward  her.  As  I  came  near,  I  recognized  her  for  an 
old,  a  very  old  inmate  of  the  poor-house,  named  Delaree. 
Stopping  a  moment,  while  I  was  yet  several  yards  from  her  and 
before  she  saw  me,  I  tried  to  call  to  recollection  certain  particu- 
lars of  her  history  which  I  had  heard  a  great  while  past.  She 
was  a  native  of  one  of  the  West  India  islands,  and,  before  I  who 
gazed  at  her  was  born,  had  with  her  husband  come  hither,  to 
settle  and  gain  a  livelihood.  They  were  poor;  most  miserably 
poor.  Country  people,  I  have  noticed,  seldom  like  foreigners. 
So  this  man  and  his  wife,  in  all  probability,  met  much  to  dis- 
courage them.  They  kept  up  their  spirits,  however,  until  at 
last  their  fortunes  became  desperate.  Famine  and  want  laid 
iron  fingers  upon  them.  They  had  no  acquaintance;  and  to 
beg  they  were  ashamed.1  Both  were  taken  ill;  then  the  charity 
that  had  been  so  slack  came  to  their  destitute  abode,  but  came 
too  late.  Delaree  died,  the  victim  of  poverty.  The  woman 
recovered  after  a  while;  for  but  many  months  was  quite  an 
invalid,  and  was  sent  to  the  alms-house,  where  she  had  ever 
since  remained. 

This  was  the  story  of  the  aged  creature  before  me,  aged  with 
the  weight  of  seventy  winters.  I  walked  up  to  her.  By  her 
feet  stood  a  large  rude  basket,  in  which  I  beheld  leaves  and 
buds.  The  two  graves  which  I  had  seen  her  passing  between  so 
often  were  covered  with  flowers — the  earliest  but  sweetest 
flowers  of  the  season.  They  were  fresh,  and  wet,  and  very  frag- 
rant— those  delicate  soul-orTerings.  And  this,  then,  was  her 
employment.     Strange!     Flowers,   frail   and  passing,  grasped 

xCj.  "Luke,"  xvi:  3. 


64  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

by  the  hand  of  age,  and  scattered  upon  a  tomb !  White  hairs, 
and  pale  blossoms,  and  stone  tablets  of  Death! 

"Good  morning,  mistress,"  said  I,  quietly. 

The  withered  female  turned  her  eyes  to  mine,  and  acknowl- 
edged my  greeting  in  the  same  spirit  wherewith  it  was  given. 

"May  I  ask  whose  graves  they  are  that  you  remember  so 
kindly?" 

She  looked  up  again,  probably  catching  from  my  manner 
that  I  spoke  in  no  spirit  of  rude  inquisitiveness,  and  answered, 

"My  husband's." 

A  manifestation  of  a  fanciful  taste,  thought  I,  this  tomb- 
ornamenting,  which  she  probably  brought  with  her  from 
abroad.  Of  course,  but  one  of  the  graves  could  be  her  hus- 
band's; and  one,  likely,  was  that  of  a  child,  who  had  died  and 
been  laid  away  by  its  father. 

"Who  else?"  I  asked. 

"My  husband's,"  replied  the  aged  widow. 

Poor  creature!  her  faculties  were  becoming  dim.  No  doubt 
her  sorrows  and  her  length  of  life  had  worn  both  mind  and  body 
nearly  to  the  parting. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  continued  I,  mildly;  "but  there  are  two 
graves.     One  is  your  husband's,  and  the  other  is " 

I  paused  for  her  to  fill  the  blank. 

She  looked  at  me  a  minute,  as  if  in  wonder  at  my  perverse- 
ness,  and  then  answered  as  before, 

"My  husband's.     None  but  my  Gilbert's." 

"And  is  Gilbert  buried  in  both?"  said  I. 

She  appeared  as  if  going  to  answer,  but  stopped  again  and 
did  not.  Though  my  curiosity  was  now  somewhat  excited,  I 
forebore  to  question  her  further,  feeling  that  it  might  be  to 
her  a  painful  subject.  I  was  wrong,  however.  She  had  been 
rather  agitated  at  my  intrusion,  and  her  powers  flickered  for  a 
moment.  They  were  soon  steady  again;  and,  perhaps  gratified 
with  my  interest  in  her  affairs,  she  gave  in  a  few  brief  sentences 
the  solution  of  the  mystery.  When  her  husband's  death  oc- 
curred, she  was  herself  confined  to  a  sick  bed,  which  she  did  not 
leave  for  a  long  while  after  he  was  buried.  Still  longer  days 
passed  before  she  had  permission,  or  even  strength,  to  go  into 
the  open  air.  When  she  did,  her  first  efforts  were  essayed  to 
reach  Gilbert's  grave.  What  a  pang  sunk  to  her  heart  when  she 
found  it  could  not  be  pointed  out  to  her!  With  the  careless  in- 
difference which   is  shown   to   the   corpses  of  outcasts,  poor 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  65 

Delaree  had  been  thrown  into  a  hastily  dug  hole,  without  any 
one  noting  it,  or  remembering  which  it  was.  Subsequently, 
several  other  paupers  were  buried  in  the  same  spot,  and  the 
sexton  could  only  show  two  graves  to  the  disconsolate  woman, 
and  tell  her  that  her  husband's  was  positively  one  of  the  twain. 
During  the  latter  stages  of  her  recovery,  she  had  looked  forward 
to  the  consolation  of  coming  to  his  tomb  as  to  a  shrine,  and 
wiping  her  tears  there;  and  it  was  bitter  that  such  could  not  be. 
The  miserable  widow  even  attempted  to  obtain  the  consent  of 
the  proper  functionaries  that  the  graves  might  be  opened,  and 
her  anxieties  put  at  rest!  When  told  that  this  could  not  be  done, 
she  determined  in  her  soul  that  at  least  the  remnant  of  her  hopes 
and  intentions  should  not  be  given  up.  Every  Sunday  morning, 
in  the  mild  seasons,  she  went  forth  early,  and  gathered  fresh 
flowers,  and  dressed  both  the  graves.  So  she  knew  that  the  right 
one  was  cared  for,  even  if  another  shared  that  care.  And  lest 
she  should  possibly  bestow  the  most  of  this  testimony  of  love 
on  him  whom  she  knew  not,  but  whose  spirit  might  be  looking 
down  invisibly  in  the  air,  and  smiling  upon  her,  she  was  ever 
careful  to  have  each  tomb  adorned  in  exactly  similar  manner. 
In  a  strange  land,  and  among  a  strange  race,  she  said,  it  was 
like  communion  with  her  own  people  to  visit  that  burial- 
mound. 

"If  I  could  only  know  which  to  bend  over  when  my  heart 
feels  heavy,"  thus  finished  the  sorrowing  being  as  she  rose  to 
depart,  "  then  it  would  be  a  happiness.  But  perhaps  I  am  blind 
to  my  dearest  mercies.  God  in  his  great  wisdom  may  have  sent 
that  I  should  not  know  which  grave  was  his,  lest  grief  over  it 
should  become  too  common  a  luxury  with  me,  and  melt  me 
away." 

I  offered  to  accompany  her,  and  support  her  feeble  steps; 
but  she  preferred  that  it  should  not  be  so.  With  languid  feet 
she  moved  on.  I  watched  her  pass  through  the  gate  and  under 
the  arch;  I  saw  her  turn,  and  in  a  little  while  she  was  hidden 
from  my  view.  Then  I  carefully  parted  the  flowers  upon  one 
of  the  graves,  and  sat  down  there,  and  leaned  my  face  in  my 
hands  and  thought. 

W7hat  a  wondrous  thing  is  woman's  love!  Oh  Thou  whose 
most  mighty  attribute  is  the  Incarnation  of  Love,  I  bless  Thee 
that  Thou  didst  make  this  fair  disposition  in  the  human  heart, 
and  didst  root  it  there  so  deeply  that  it  is  stronger  than  all 
else,  and  can  never  be  torn  out!    Here  is  this  aged  wayfarer,  a 


66  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

woman  of  trials  and  griefs,  decrepid,  sore,  and  steeped  in  pov- 
erty; the  most  forlorn  of  her  kind;  and  yet,  through  all  the 
storm  of  misfortune,  and  the  dark  cloud  of  years  settling  upon 
her,  the  Memory  of  her  Love  hovers  like  a  beautiful  spirit  amid 
the  gloom,  and  never  deserts  her,  but  abides  with  her  while 
life  abides.  Yes;  this  creature  loved;  this  wrinkled,  skinny, 
gray-haired  crone  had  her  heart  to  swell  with  passion,  and  her 
pulses  to  throb,  and  her  eyes  to  sparkle.  Now,  nothing  remains 
but  a  Loving  Remembrance,  coming  as  of  old,  and  stepping  in 
its  accustomed  path,  not  to  perform  its  former  object,  or  former 
duty — but  from  long  habit.  Nothing  but  that! — Ah!  is  not 
that  a  great  deal? 

And  the  buried  man — he  was  happy  to  have  passed  away  as 
he  did.  The  woman — she  was  the  one  to  be  pitied.  Without 
doubt  she  wished  many  times  that  she  were  laid  beside  him. 
And  not  only  she,  thought  I,  as  I  cast  my  eyes  on  the  solemn 
memorials  around  me;  but  at  the  same  time  there  were  thou- 
sands else  on  earth  who  panted  for  the  Long  Repose,  as  a  tired 
child  for  the  night.1  The  grave — the  grave — what  foolish  man 
calls  it  a  dreadful  place?  It  is  a  kind  friend,  whose  arms  shall 
compass  us  round  about,  and  while  we  lay  our  heads  upon  his 
bosom,  no  care,  temptation,  nor  corroding  passion  shall  have 
power  to  disturb  us.  Then  the  weary  spirit  shall  no  more  be 
weary;  the  aching  head  and  aching  heart  will  be  strangers  to 
pain;  and  the  soul  that  has  fretted  and  sorrowed  away  its  little 
life  on  earth  will  sorrow  not  any  more.  When  the  mind  has 
been  roaming  abroad  in  the  crowd,  and  returns  sick  and  tired 
of  hollow  hearts,  and  of  human  deceit — let  us  think  of  the  grave 
and  of  death,  and  they  will  seem  like  soft  and  pleasant  music. 
Such  thoughts  then  soothe  and  calm  our  pulses;  they  open  a 
peaceful  prospect  before  us.  I  do  not  dread  the  grave.  There 
is  many  a  time  when  I  could  lay  down  and  pass  my  immortal 
part  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  as  composedly  as  I  quaff 
water  after  a  tiresome  walk.  For  what  is  there  of  terror  in  tak- 
ing our  rest?  What  is  there  here  below  to  draw  us  with  such 
fondness?  Life  is  the  running  of  a  race — a  most  weary  race, 
sometimes.  Shall  we  fear  the  goal,  merely  because  it  is  shrouded 
in  a  cloud? 

I  rose,  and  carefully  replaced  the  parted  flowers,  and  bent  my 
steps  homeward. 

If  there  be  any  sufficiently  interested  in  the  fate  of  the  aged 

1  Cf.  infra,  p.  II,  and  other  juvenile  verse  of  the  "graveyard"  type. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  67 

woman,  that  they  wish  to  know  further  about  her,  for  those  I 
will  add  that  ere  long  her  affection  was  transferred  to  a  Region 
where  it  might  receive  the  reward  of  its  constancy  and  purity. 
Her  last  desire — and  it  was  complied  with — was  that  she 
should  be  placed  midway  between  the  two  graves. 


BOZ  AND  DEMOCRACY1 

Is  it  not  your  fortune,  reader,  occasionally,  in  your  path 
through  life,  to  meet  with  one  whose  custom  it  is  to  look  alway 
upon  the  dark  points  of  a  picture — to  seek  out  faults,  and  where 
they  do  not  really  exist,  to  fancy  them — whose  disposition  is 
sour  and  whose  soul  seems  anxious  to  condemn  all  that  other 
people  praise?  A  man  of  this  description  is  to  cheerfulness  and 
soul-confidence  what  a  cloud  is  to  the  sun.  Malignant  and 
envious,  he  would  rob  a  patriot  of  his  countrymen's  love — a 
saint  of  his  reverence — a  glorious  writer  of  his  well-deserved 
fame. 

The  Washington  Globe  discourse th  after  the  following  manner: 

If  to  delineate  the  human  character  in  its  lowest  stage  of  ignorance, 
vice  and  degradation,  and  give  it  the  most  unbounded  scope  in  every 
species  of  wickedness  and  crime,  is  to  be  a  Democratic  writer,  then 
most  assuredly  Mr.  Dickens  is  emphatically  one.  He  has  exhibited 
human  nature  in  its  naked,  ragged  deformity,  reeking  with  vice  and 
pollution;  as  ignorant  as  wicked,  and  absolutely  below  the  standard  of 
the  very  beasts  of  the  field.  He  has  made  his  exhibitions  of  human 
character  more  disgusting  and  abhorrent,  by  a  degree  of  brutal  ignor- 
ance and  stupendous  depravity,  which  constitute,  in  their  combination, 
a  spectacle  so  absolutely  and  exclusively  hateful,  as  to  absorb  all  con- 
sideration of  the  means  by  which  this  miserable  desecration  of  human- 
ity was  produced,  and  all  sympathy  for  the  brutes  who  to  us,  as  it  were, 
misrepresent  their  fellow  creatures.  Incidentally,  these  spectacles  may 
connect  themselves  in  our  minds,  with  the  means  by  which  this  extrem- 
ity of  vice  and  ignorance  was  produced,  but  the  overwhelming  feeling 
is  that  of  disgust  and  abhorrence.  There  are  physical  diseases  so  re- 
volting to  the  senses  as  to  convert  pity  into  sickening  disgust,  and 
there  is  a  degree  of  moral  corruption  and  wickedness  which  annihilates 
all  sympathy. 

iFrom  Brother  Jonathan,  February  26,  1842.  Dickens  was  at  the  time  being  feted  in 
New  York. 

The  editor  of  the  Brother  Jonathan,  in  referring  to  this  communication,  declares  that 
it  "bears  the  initials  of  as  true  and  honest  a  democrat  as  the  editor  of  the  Globe}or  any 
of  the  correspondents  of  that  paper." 


68  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

To  call  this  the  literature  of  Democracy  is  to  make  Democracy  as 
brutal  as  this  gentleman  has  been  pleased  to  represent  it  in  his  native 
country.  It  may  suit  there,  where  it  has  perhaps  its  prototypes,  so 
numerous  as  to  constitute  a  class,  but  it  does  not  actually  belong  to  the 
United  States,  nor  is  it  applicable  to  the  state  of  society  in  this  country. 
Such  a  school  of  literature  can  only  aid  the  course  and  progress  of  vice 
among  us,  by  placing  before  the  already  degraded,  examples  of  new 
modes  of  wickedness,  with  which  they  were  hitherto  unacquainted, 
and  degrees  of  degradation  of  which  they  never  had  any  perception,  until 
they  became  so  conspicuous  in  the  polite  and  fashionable  literature 
of  the  day.  The  extraordinary  cheapness  with  which  these  works  have 
been  got  up  among  us,  and  the  allurements  they  present  in  a  series  of 
embellishments  with  the  grossness  of  the  scenes  they  are  intended  to 
illustrate,  have  given  them  a  general  circulation  among  those  classes 
most  likely  to  overlook  the  latent  imperceptible  moral,  if  any  such 
exists,  and  to  concentrate  their  attention  on  those  broad  caricatures  of 
wickedness,  which  are  too  often  represented  by  the  author  in  combina- 
tion with  ludicrous  circumstances,  admirably  calculated  to  make  those 
who  have  no  very  distinct  notions  of  right  and  wrong,  consider  the 
whole  an  excellent  joke,  worthy  of  all  imitation. 

I  cannot,  for  my  part,  comprehend  how  a  writer  can  be  fairly  en- 
titled to  the  credit  of  being  the  champion  of  that  class  of  mankind 
which  he  pictures  in  colors  so  revolting  to  our  feelings  and  sympathies; 
nor  by  what  process  of  induction  this  intimate  association  with  this 
perpetual  contemplation  with  all  the  varieties  of  extreme  degradation 
coupled  with  a  boundless  latitude  of  crime,  can  be  converted  into  a 
school  of  morals.  If  this  is  indeed  the  tendency  of  such  contemplations 
and  associations,  let  us  send  our  children  to  bridewells  and  penitenti- 
aries for  their  education,  and  to  the  quarter  sessions  for  lessons  of 
morality.  Indeed  it  seems  to  me  that  Mr.  Dickens'  moral  writings 
are  very  much  on  a  par  with  Le  Boeuf 's  great  moral  picture  of  Adam 
and  Eve,  in  the  moment  of  being  tempted  by  the  serpent.  They  were 
represented  as  large  as  life,  perfectly  naked,  the  female  in  the  attitude 
of  a  lascivious  courtesan,  tempting  a  bashful  youth;  and  if  the  artist 
had  not  fortunately  bethought  himself  of  calling  it  a  great  moral  pic- 
ture, no  decent  female  would  have  dared  to  visit  its  exhibition.  At 
this  rate,  I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised  at  seeing  some  strenuous 
amateur  writing  a  criticism  to  prove  the  displays  of  Fanny  Elssleri  a 
great  moral  spectacle. 

The  above  is  evidently  the  offering  of  no  unpracticed  hand. 
I  wish  I  could  speak  as  favorably  of  the  author's  appreciation 
of  merit,  and  of  his  candor  and  judgment. 

A  "democratic  writer,"  I  take  it,  is  one  the  tendency  of  whose 
pages  is  to  destroy  those  old  land-marks  which  pride  and  fashion 

-A  German  danseuse  (i 8 10-1884). 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  69 

have  set  up,  making  impassable  distinctions  between  the  breth- 
ren of  the  Great  Family1 — to  render  in  their  deformity  before 
us  the  tyranny  of  partial  laws — to  show  us  the  practical  work- 
ings of  the  thousand  distortions  engrafted  by  custom  upon  our 
notions  of  what  justice  is — to  make  us  love  our  fellow-creatures, 
and  own  that  although  social  distinctions  place  others  far 
higher  or  far  lower  than  we,  yet  are  human  beings  alike,  as  links 
of  the  same  chain;  one  whose  lines  are  imbued,  from  preface  to 
finis,  with  that  philosophy  which  teaches  to  pull  down  the  high 
and  bring  up  the  low.  I  consider  Mr.  Dickens  to  be  a  demo- 
cratic writer. 

The  mere  fact  of  a  man's  delineating  human  character  in  its 
lowest  stages  of  degradation,  and  giving  it  unbounded  scope  in 
every  species  of  wickedness,  proves  neither  his  "democracy" 
nor  its  opposite.  If  it  be  done  in  such  a  way  as  that  a  kind  of 
charm  is  thrown  all  the  time  around  the  guilty  personage  de- 
scribed— in  such  a  way  that  excuses  and  palliations  for  his 
vice  are  covertly  conveyed,  every  now  and  then — such  writings, 
most  assuredly,  would  have  no  fair  claim  to  rank  among  "the 
literature  of  democracy."  But  when  these  specimens  of  naked, 
ragged  deformity,  as  ignorant  as  wicked,  are  drawn  out  before 
us,  and  surrounded  with  their  fit  accompaniments,  filth  and 
darkness,  and  the  deepest  discomfort — when  crime  is  por- 
trayed, never  so  that  by  any  possibility  the  reader  can  find  the 
slightest  temptation  to  go  and  do  likewise — when  we  see  how 
evil  doing  is  followed  by  its  sure  and  long  and  weary  punish- 
ment— when  our  minds  are  led  to  the  irresistible  conclusion  that 
iniquity  is  loathsome,  and  by  the  magic  of  the  pen-painter  have 
its  pictures  so  stamped  upon  them  that  we  ever  after  associate 
depraved  actions  with  lowness  and  the  very  vulgarity  of  pollu- 
tion— in  such  case,  I  say,  the  delineations  of  life  in  its  lowest  as- 
pect, and  even  characterized  by  grossest  ignorance  and  brutality, 
do  not  militate  against  their  author's  claim  for  admiration  from 
all  true  democrats.  And,  then,  the  effect  of  the  contrast  which 
Mr.  Dickens  seems  fond  of  forcing  us  to  make  between  these 
wicked  ones  and  the  beings  of  purity  and  truth  whom  he  also 
draws  with  a  master  hand !  How  he  brings  these  characters  to- 
gether, and  places  them  side  by  side,  and  makes  them  play 
into  each  other's  hands,  as  it  were,  for  the  purpose  of  bringing 
out  their  distinctive  traits!  He  not  only  teaches  his  readers  to 
abhor  vice,  but  he  exhibits  before  them,  for  imitation,  examples 

lCf.  infra,  pp.  46-48. 


70  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

of  the  beauty  of  honesty — not  as  in  the  abstract  style  of  the  es- 
sayist, or  the  lofty  dreams  of  the  poet — but  by  examples  that 
everyone  can  copy,  examples  in  familiar  life,  that  come  home  to 
us  all.  Who  is  not  in  love  with  truth  when  he  follows,  through 
trouble,  poverty,  and  temptation,  a  little  child  that  never 
swerves,  but  in  its  simplicity  conducts  itself  as  though  there 
were  no  such  thing  as  falsehood?  What  impropriety  is  there 
in  the  process  of  induction  which  calls  that  a  school  of  morals 
where  the  pupil  sees  mapped  out  before  him  the  parish  boy's 
progress  through  sin  and  ignorance — resisting  the  tempter 
when  yielding  would  have  procured  ease — steadily  holding  to 
the  truth  at  all  risks — living  like  an  angel  of  light  amid  spirits 
of  darkness — never  giving  up,  though  often  his  prospects  seemed 
desperate — and  being  rewarded,  at  last,  with  prosperity? 

The  writer  in  the  Globe  thinks  that  the  spectacles  of  misery 
pictured  in  the  Boz  novels  constitute  a  combination  so  exclu- 
sively hateful  as  to  absorb  all  consideration  of  the  means  which 
produce  them,  and  all  sympathy  for  the  performers  themselves. 
Did  not  the  writer  in  the  Globe,  when  he  read  the  graphically 
drawn  and  deeply  colored  picture  of  the  life  led  by  Oliver  Twist 
and  his  mates  in  the  poor  house,  and  of  all  the  transactions 
there,  and  of  the  conduct  of  those  who  had  to  do  with  the  insti- 
tution— did  he  not  have  some  reflections  upon  the  evils  of  such 
a  state  of  society  as  led  to  the  existence  of  these  things?  When 
he  read  of  Squeers  and  Do-the-boys  hall,  did  he  not  entertain 
the  most  distant  idea  of  how  such  a  boarding-school  system, 
if  prevalent,  might  be  rooted  out,  by  thus  showing  it  up? 

The  critic  in  the  Globe  compares  Mr.  Dickens'  portraitures 
to  the  exhibition  of  those  physical  diseases  so  revolting  to  the 
senses  as  to  create  nothing  but  horror  and  sickening  disgust.  I 
suppose  that  in  order  to  please  our  critic,  a  writer  must  speak 
mincingly,  and  with  much  delicacy  lest  he  should  introduce  a 
vigorous  turn  or  idea,  which  would  offend  him  for  its  grossness. 
I  fear  me  he  is  too  dainty.  Such  exquisite  sensitiveness — such 
affectation  of  being  overcome  by  the  strength  of  description  in 
the  novelist — such  refined  horror  at  some  fancied  overstepping 
of  the  limits  wherein  an  author  should  confine  himself,  if  he 
aspires  to  please  the  polite  taste — bespeak  the  literary  fop  much 
more  than  they  mark  a  man  really  fit  to  measure  the  length  and 
breadth  of  that  genius  he  so  maligns.  Besides,  Mr.  Dickens 
makes  a  sparing  use  of  these  strong  features.  The  criticism 
in  the  Globe  seems  imbued  throughout  with  the  notion  that  the 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  fi 

Boz  works  tell  of  nothing  but  the  horrible  and  the  awful — of 
desperate  crime,  and  sensual  vice.  Surely  it  is  not  so.  Boz 
is  not  altogether  a  feeder  upon  Newgate  Calendars,  and  Police 
Reports,  and  whatever  else  reflects  from  the  mind  of  him  who 
looks  thereon  a  sombre  and  a  sorrowful  hue.  Pickwick,1  and 
the  Wellers,1  and  the  Fat  Boy,1  forbid!  Dick  Swiveller2  and 
the  Marchioness2 — Kit,2  and  pony — Miggs3  and  Joe  Willett,3 
condemn  the  imputation.  And  thy  sweet  face,  Kate  Nickleby,4 
and  thy  Christian  nature,  Cheeryble  brothers4 — and  thou,  poor 
Nell2 — and  thou,  G.  Varden3 — repel  the  slander! 

The  familiarity  with  low  life  wherein  Mr.  Dickens  places  his 
readers  is  a  wholesome  familiarity.  For  those  moving  in  a  kin- 
dred sphere  it  is  wholesome,  because  it  holds  out  to  them  con- 
tinually the  spectacle  of  beings  of  their  own  grade,  engaged 
either  in  worthy  actions  which  are  held  up  to  emulation,  and 
shown  to  be  rewarded  both  in  themselves  and  in  their  results — 
or  engaged  in  avocations  of  guilt  which  in  themselves  and  their 
results  are  fearful,  and  only  to  be  thought  of  with  shuddering. 
For  the  richer  classes  this  familiarity  is  wholesome  because  they 
are  taught  to  feel,  in  fancy,  what  poverty  is,  and  what  thou- 
sands of  fellow-creatures,  as  good  as  they,  toil  on  year  after 
year,  amid  discouragements  and  evils,  whose  bare  relation  is 
enough  to  make  the  hearer  heart-sick.  The  rich  cannot  taste 
the  distresses  of  want  from  their  own  experience;  it  is  some- 
thing if  they  are  made  to  do  so  through  the  power  of  the  pen. 

He  cannot  comprehend,  this  critic  tells  us,  how  a  writer  can 
be  called  the  champion  of  that  class  of  mankind  which  he  pic- 
tures in  colors  so  revolting.  A  good  parent  or  teacher  some- 
times has  to  lay  before  those  whom  he  would  reform  the  strong, 
naked,  hideous  truth.  But  Mr.  Dickens  never  maligns  the 
poor.  He  puts  the  searing  iron  to  wickedness,  whether  among 
poor  or  rich;  and  yet  when  he  describes  the  guily,  poor  and  op- 
pressed man,  we  are  always  in  some  way  reminded  how  much 
need  there  is  that  certain  systems  of  law  and  habit  which  lead 
to  this  poverty  and  consequent  crime  should  be  remedied. 

I  would  say  more,  but  my  limits  prevent  me.     I  cannot, 

Characters  in  the  "Pickwick  Papers,"  1836. 

2 Characters  in  "The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  1840-41. 

3  Characters  in  "Barnaby  Rudge,"  1841. 

4 Characters  in  "Nicholas  Nickleby,"  1839. 

It  would  appear  from  the  above  list  that  Whitman  had  devoured  Dickens's  novels 
as  fast  as  they  came  from  the  press,  for  he  alludes  to  all  that  had  been  published  in 
1842,  the  date  of  "Boz  and  Democracy." 


72  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

however,  close  this  paper  without  alluding  once  more,  as  in  the 
beginning  of  the  article,  to  those  men  who  are  always  prone  to 
carping  and  detraction.  Mr.  Dickens'  charming  manners, 
his  modesty,  his  freedom  from  haughtiness,  his  lovable  nature, 
his  pleasant  tenor  of  mind,  as  displayed  in  his  personal  conduct 
— might,  it  would  seem,  have  saved  him  from  those  snappish 
and  sour  flings  which  some  of  the  third-rate  editorial  fry  are 
indulging  in  toward  him.  There  are  men  among  us  with  that 
unfortunate  disposition — unfortunate  as  well  for  themselves 
as  for  those  who  have  any  intercourse  with  them — which  picks 
out  by  preference  every  chance  to  snarl,  and  bite,  and  find  fault. 
Honor  paid  to  a  fellow-creature  is  hateful  to  them:  they  turn 
pale  with  envy  and  malignance. 

As  I  think  that  my  humble  lance,  wielded  in  defense  of  Mr. 
Dickens,  may  meet  the  sight  of  that  gentleman  himself,  I  can- 
not lose  the  opportunity  of  saying  how  much  I  love  and  esteem 
him  for  what  he  has  taught  me  through  his  writings — and  for 
the  genial  influence  that  these  writings  spread  around  them 
wherever  they  go.  Never  having  seen  Boz  in  the  body,  we  have 
yet  had  many  a  tete-a-tete.  And  I  cannot  tamely  hear  one 
whom  I  have  long  considered  as  a  personal  friend,  and  as  a 
friend  to  his  species,  thus  falsely  and  uncharitably  and  ground- 
lessly  attacked. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  SACRED  ARMY1 

The  memory  of  the  WARRIORS  OF  OUR  FREEDOM!— 

let  us  guard  it  with  holy  care.  Let  the  mighty  pulse  which 
throbs  responsive  in  a  nation's  heart  at  utterance  of  that  nation's 
names  of  glory  never  lie  languid  when  their  deeds  are  told  or  their 
example  cited.  To  him  of  the  Calm  Gray  Eye,2  selected  by  the 
Leader  of  the  Ranks  of  Heaven  as  the  instrument  for  a  people's 
redemption; — to  him,  the  bright  and  brave,  who  fell  in  the  attack 
at  Breed's;3 — to  him,  the  nimble-footed  soldier  of  the  swamps 
of  Santee;4 — to  the  young  stranger  from  the  luxuries  of  his 
native  France;5 — to  all  who  fought  in  that  long  weary  fight  for 

iFrom  the  Democratic  Review,  March,  1842,  Vol.  X,  pp.  259-264. 

2  General  George  Washington. 

8 Major  General  Joseph  Warren. 

♦Francis  Marion. 

6 The  Marquis  de  Lafayette. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  73 

disenthralment  from  arbitrary  rule — may  our  star  fade,  and  our 
good  angel  smile  upon  us  no  more,  if  we  fail  to  chamber  them  in 
our  hearts,  or  forget  the  method  of  their  dear-won  honor! 

For  the  fame  of  these  is  not  as  the  fame  of  common  heroes. 
The  mere  gaining  of  battles — the  chasing  away  of  an  opposing 
force — wielding  the  great  energies  of  bodies  of  military — rising 
proudly  amid  the  smoke  and  din  of  the  fight — and  marching 
the  haughty  march  of  a  conqueror — all  this,  spirit-stirring  as  it 
may  be  to  the  world,  would  fail  to  command  the  applause  of  the 
just  and  discriminating.  But  such  is  not  the  base  whereon 
American  warriors  found  their  title  to  renown.  Our  storied 
names  are  those  of  the  Soldiers  of  Liberty;  hardy  souls,  encased 
in  hardy  bodies — untainted  with  the  effeminacy  of  voluptuous 
cities,  patient,  enduring  much  for  principle's  sake,  and  wending 
on  through  blood,  disease,  destitution,  and  prospects  of  gloom  to 
attain  the  Great  Treasure. 

Years  have  passed;  the  sword-clash  and  the  thundering  of 
the  guns  have  died  away;  and  all  personal  knowledge  of  those 
events — of  the  fierce  incentives  to  hate,  and  the  wounds,  and 
scorn,  and  the  curses  from  the  injured,  and  wailings  from  the 
prisoners — lives  now  but  in  the  memory  of  a  few  score  of  gray- 
haired  men;  whose  number  is,  season  after  season,  made  thinner 
and  thinner  by  death.  Haply,  long,  long  will  be  the  period  ere 
our  beloved  country  shall  witness  the  presence  of  such  or  similar 
scenes  again.  Haply,  too,  the  time  is  arriving  when  War,  with 
all  its  train  of  sanguinary  horrors,  will  be  a  discarded  custom 
among  the  nations  of  earth.  A  newer  and  better  philosophy — 
teaching  how  evil  it  is  to  hew  down  and  slay  ranks  of  fellow- 
men,  because  of  some  disagreement  between  their  respective 
rulers — is  melting  away  old  prejudices  upon  this  subject,  as 
warmth  in  spring  melts  the  frigid  ground.    : 

The  lover  of  his  race — did  he  not,  looking  abroad  in  the 
world,  see  millions  whose  swelling  hearts  are  all  crushed  into 
the  dust  beneath  the  iron  heel  of  oppression;  did  he  not  behold 
how  kingcraft  and  priestcraft  stalk  abroad  over  fair  portions  of 
the  globe,  and  forge  the  chain,  and  rivet  the  yoke;  and  did  he  not 
feel  that  it  were  better  to  live  in  one  flaming  atmosphere  of  car- 
nage than  slavishly  thus — would  offer  up  nightly  prayers  that 
this  new  philosophy  might  prevail  to  the  utmost,  and  the  reign 
of  peace  never  more  be  disturbed  among  mankind. 

On  one  of  the  anniversaries  of  our  national  independence,  I 
was  staying  at  the  house  of  an  old  farmer,  about  a  mile  from  a 


74  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

thriving  country  town,  whose  inhabitants  were  keeping  up  the 
spirit  of  the  occasion  with  great  fervor.  The  old  man  himself 
was  a  thumping  patriot.  Early  in  the  morning,  my  slumbers 
had  been  broken  by  the  sharp  crack  of  his  ancient  musket, 
(I  looked  upon  that  musket  with  reverence,  for  it  had  seen 
service  in  the  war),  firing  salutes  in  honor  of  the  day.  I  am 
free  to  confess,  my  military  propensities  were  far  from  strong 
enough  (appropriate  as  they  might  have  been  considered  at 
such  a  time)  to  suppress  certain  peevish  exclamations  toward 
the  disturber  of  my  sweet  repose.  In  the  course  of  the  forenoon, 
I  attended  the  ceremonials  observed  in  the  village;  sat,  during 
the  usual  patriotic  address,  on  the  same  bench  with  a  time-worn 
veteran  that  had  fought  in  the  contest  now  commemorated; 
witnessed  the  evolutions  of  the  uniform  company;  and  returned 
home  with  a  most  excellent  appetite  for  my  dinner. 

The  afternoon  was  warm  and  drowsy.  I  ensconced  myself 
in  my  easy-chair,  near  an  open  window;  feeling  in  that  most 
blissful  state  of  semi-somnolency,  which  it  is  now  and  then, 
though  rarely,  given  to  mortals  to  enjoy.  I  was  alone,  the 
family  of  my  host  having  gone  on  some  visit  to  a  neighbor. 
The  bees  hummed  in  the  garden,  and  among  the  flowers  that 
clustered  over  the  window  frame;  a  sleepy  influence  seemed  to 
imbue  everything  around;  occasionally  the  faint  sound  of  some 
random  gunfire  from  the  village  would  float  along,  or  the  just 
perceptible  music  from  the  band,  or  the  tra-a-a-ra-  of  a  locust. 
But  these  were  far  from  being  jars  to  the  quiet  spirit  I  have 
mentioned. 

Insensibly,  my  consciousness  became  less  and  less  distinct;  my 
head  leaned  back;  my  eyes  closed;  and  my  senses  relaxed  from 
their  waking  vigilance.     I  slept. 

.  .  .  How  strange  a  chaos  is  sometimes  the  outset  to  a 
dream!1 — There  was  the  pulpit  of  the  rude  church,  the  scene  of 
the  oration — and  in  it  a  grotesque  form  whom  I  had  noticed 
as  the  drummer  in  the  band,  beating  away  as  though  calling 
scattered  forces  to  the  rescue.  Then  the  speaker  of  the  day 
pitched  coppers  with  some  unshorn  hostler  boys;  and  the  grave 
personage  who  had  opened  the  services  with  prayer  was  half 
stripped  and  running  a  foot-race  with  a  tavern  loafer.  The 
places  and  the  persons  familiar  to  my  morning  excursion  about 
the  country  town  appeared  as  in  life,  but  in  situations  all  fan- 
tastic and  out  of  the  way. 

i  C/.post,  II,  pp.  200-204. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  75 

After  a  while,  what  I  beheld  began  to  reduce  itself  to  more 
method.  With  the  singular  characteristic  of  dreams,  I  knew — 
I  could  not  tell  how — that  thirty  years  elapsed  from  the  then 
time,  and  I  was  among  a  new  generation.  Beings  by  me  never 
seen  before,  and  some  with  shrivelled  forms,  bearing  an  odd 
resemblance  to  men  whom  I  had  known  in  the  bloom  of  man- 
hood, met  my  eyes. 

Methought  I  stood  in  a  splendid  city.  It  seemed  a  gala  day. 
Crowds  of  people  were  swiftly  wending  along  the  streets  and 
walks,  as  if  to  behold  some  great  spectacle  or  famous  leader. 

"Whither  do  the  people  go?"  said  I  to  a  Shape  who  passed 
me,  hurrying  on  with  the  rest. 

"Know  you  not,"  answered  he,  "that  the  Last  of  the  Sacred 
Army  may  be  seen  to-day?" 

And  he  hastened  forward,  apparently  fearful  lest  he  might 
be  late. 

Among  the  dense  ranks  I  noticed  many  women,  some  of  them 
with  infants  in  their  arms.  Then  there  were  boys,  beautiful 
creatures,  struggling  on,  with  a  more  intense  desire  even  than 
the  men.  And  as  I  looked  up,  I  saw  at  some  distance,  coming 
toward  the  place  where  I  stood,  a  troop  of  young  females,  the 
foremost  one  bearing  a  wreath  of  fresh  flowers.  The  crowd 
pulled  and  pushed  so  violently  that  this  party  of  girls  were 
sundered  one  from  another,  and  she  who  carried  the  wreath 
being  jostled,  her  flowers  were  trampled  to  the  ground. 

"O,  hapless  me!"  cried  the  child;  and  she  began  to  weep. 

At  that  moment  her  companions  came  up;  and  they  looked 
frowningly  when  they  saw  the  wreath  torn. 

"Do  not  grieve,  gentle  one,"  said  I  to  the  weeping  child. 
"And  you,"  turning  to  the  others,  "blame  her  not.  There 
bloom  more  flowers,  as  fair  and  fragrant  as  those  which  lie  rent 
beneath  your  feet." 

"No,"  said  one  of  the  little  troop,  "it  is  now  too  late." 

"What  mean  you?"  I  asked. 

The  children  looked  at  me  in  wonder. 

"For  whom  did  you  intend  the  wreath?"  continued  I. 

"Heard  you  not,"  rejoined  one  of  them,  "that  to-day  may 
be  seen  the  Last  of  His  Witnesses?  We  were  on  our  way  to 
present  this  lovely  wreath — and  she  who  would  give  it  was  to 
say,  that  fresh  and  sweet,  like  it,  would  ever  be  His  memory  in 
the  souls  of  us,  and  of  our  countrymen." 

And  the  children  walked  on. 


76     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Yielding  myself  to  the  sway  of  the  current,  which  yet  con- 
tinued to  flow  in  one  huge  human  stream,  I  was  carried  through 
street  after  street,  and  along  many  a  stately  passage,  the 
sides  of  which  were  lined  by  palace-like  houses.  After  a  time, 
we  came  to  a  large  open  square,  which  seemed  to  be  the  desti- 
nation— for  there  the  people  stopped.  At  the  further  end  of 
this  square  stood  a  magnificent  building,  evidently  intended  for 
public  purposes;  and  in  front  of  it  a  wide  marble  elevation,  half 
platform  and  half  porch.  Upon  this  elevation  were  a  great 
many  persons,  all  of  them  in  standing  postures,  except  one,  an 
aged,  very  aged  man,  seated  in  a  throne-like  chair.  His  figure 
and  face  showed  him  to  be  of  a  length  of  life  seldom  vouchsaved 
to  his  kind;  and  his  head  was  thinly  covered  with  hair  of  a 
silvery  whiteness. 

Now  near  me  stood  one  whom  I  knew  to  be  a  learned  philoso- 
pher; and  to  him  I  addressed  myself  for  an  explanation  of  these 
wonderful  things. 

"Tell  me,"  said  I,  "who  is  the  ancient  being  seated  on  yonder 
platform." 

The  person  to  whom  I  spoke  stared  in  my  face  surprisedly. 

"Are  you  of  this  land,"  said  he,  "  and  have  not  heard  of  him — 
the  Last  of  the  Sacred  Army?" 

"I  am  ignorant,"  answered  I,  "of  whom  you  speak,  or  of  what 
Army." 

The  philosopher  stared  a  second  time;  but  soon,  when  I 
assured  him  I  was  not  jesting,  he  began  telling  me  of  former 
times,  and  how  it  came  to  be  that  this  white-haired  remnant  of 
a  past  age  was  the  object  of  so  much  honor.  Nor  was  the  story 
new  to  me — as  may  it  never  be  to  any  son  of  America. 

We  edged  our  way  close  to  the  platform.  Immediately 
around  the  seat  of  the  ancient  soldier  stood  many  noble-looking 
gentlemen,  evidently  of  dignified  character  and  exalted  station. 
Asil  came  near,  I  heard  them  mention  a  name — that  name  which 
is  dearest  to  our  memories  as  patriots. 

"And  you  saw  the  Chief  with  your  own  eyes?"  said  one  of 
the  gentlemen. 

"I  did,"  answered  the  old  warrior. 

And  the  crowd  were  hushed,  and  bent  reverently,  as  if 
in  a  holy  presence. 

"I  would,"  said  another  gentleman,  "I  would  you  had  some 
relic  which  might  be  as  a  chain  leading  from  our  hearts  to  his." 

"I  have  such  a  relic,"  replied  the  aged  creature;  and  with 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  77 

trembling  fingers  he  took  from  his  bosom  a  rude  medal,  sus- 
pended round  his  neck  by  a  string.  "This  the  Chief  gave  me," 
continued  he,  "to  mark  his  good-will  for  some  slight  service  I 
did  the  Cause." 

"And  has  it  been  in  his  hands?"1  asked  the  crowd,  eagerly. 

"Himself  hung  it  around  my  neck,"  said  the  veteran. 

Then  the  mighty  mass  was  hushed  again,  and  there  was  no 
noise — but  a  straining  of  fixed  eyes,  and  a  throbbing  of  hearts, 
and  cheeks  pale  with  excitement — such  excitement  as  might  be 
caused  in  a  man's  soul  by  some  sacred  memorial  of  one  he 
honored  and  loved  deeply. 

Upon  the  medal  were  the  letters  "G.  W. 

"Speak  to  us  of  him,  and  of  his  time,"  said  the  crowd. 

A  few  words  the  old  man  uttered;  but  few  and  rambling  as 
they  were,  the  people  listened  as  to  the  accents  of  an  orator. 

Then  it  was  time  for  him  to  stay  there  no  longer.  So  he 
rose,  assisted  by  such  of  the  by-standers  whose  rank  and  repu- 
tation gave  them  the  right,  and  slowly  descended.  The  mass 
divided,  to  form  a  passage  for  him  and  his  escort,  and  they 
passed  forward.  And  as  he  passed,  the  young  boys  struggled  to 
him,  that  they  might  take  his  hand,  or  touch  his  garments. 
The  women,  too,  brought  their  infants,  to  be  placed  for  a  mo- 
ment in  his  arms;  and  every  head  was  uncovered. 

I  noticed  that  there  was  little  shouting,  or  clapping  of  hands — 
but  a  deep-felt  sentiment  of  veneration  seemed  to  pervade  them, 
far  more  honorable  to  its  object  than  the  loudest  acclamations. 

In  a  short  time,  as  the  white-haired  ancient  was  out  of  sight, 
the  square  was  cleared,  and  I  stood  in  it  with  no  companion  but 
the  philosopher. 

"Is  it  well,"  said  I,  "that  such  reverence  be  bestowed  by  a 
great  people  on  a  creature  like  themselves?  The  self-respect 
each  one  has  for  his  own  nature  might  run  the  risk  of  effacement 
were  such  things  often  seen.  Besides,  it  is  not  allowed  that  man 
pay  worship  to  his  fellow." 

"Fear  not,"  answered  the  philosopher;  "the  occurrences  you 
have  just  witnessed  spring  from  the  fairest  and  manliest  traits 
in  the  soul.  Nothing  more  becomes  a  nation  than  paying  its 
choicest  honors  to  the  memory  of  those  who  have  fought  for 
it  or  labored  for  its  good.  By  thus  often  bringing  up  their  ex- 
amples before  the  eyes  of  the  living,  others  are  incited  to  follow 
in  the  same  glorious  path.     Do  not  suppose,  young  man,  that  it 

iCf.  post,  II,  pp.  3,  285,  286. 


78  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

is  by  sermons  and  oft-repeated  precepts  we  form  a  disposition 
great  or  good.1  The  model  of  one  pure,  upright  character, 
living  as  a  beacon  in  history,  does  more  benefit  than  the  lum- 
bering tomes  of  a  thousand  theorists. 

"No:  it  is  well  that  the  benefactors  of  a  state  be  so  kept  alive 
in  memory  and  in  song,  when  their  bodies  are  mouldering. 
Then  will  it  be  impossible  for  a  people  to  become  enslaved;  for 
though  the  strong  arm  of  their  old  defender  come  not  as  for- 
merly to  the  battle,  his  spirit  is  there,  through  the  power  of  re- 
membrance, and  wields  a  better  sway  even  than  if  it  were  of 
fleshy  substance." 

.  .  .  The  words  of  the  philosopher  sounded  indistinctly 
to  my  ears — and  his  features  faded,  as  in  a  mist.  I  awoke  and 
looking  through  the  window,  saw  that  the  sun  had  just  sunk 
in  the  west — two  hours  having  passed  away  since  the  com- 
mencement of  my  afternoon  slumber. 


A  LEGEND  OF  LIFE  AND  LOVE2 

A  very  cheerless  and  fallacious  doctrine  is  that  which  teaches 
to  deny  the  yielding  to  natural  feelings,  righteously  directed, 
because  the  consequences  may  be  trouble  and  grief  as  well  as 
satisfaction  and  pleasure.  The  man  who  lives  on  from  year 
to  year,  jealous  of  ever  placing  himself  in  a  situation  where 
the  chances  can  possibly  turn  against  him — ice,  as  it  were,  sur- 
rounding his  heart,  and  his  mind  too  scrupulously  weighing  in  a 
balance  the  results  of  giving  way  to  any  of  those  propensities 
his  Creator  has  planted  in  his  heart — may  be  a  philosopher,  but 
can  never  be  a  happy  man. 

Upon  the  banks  of  a  pleasant  river  stood  a  cottage,  the  resi- 
dence of  an  ancient  man  whose  limbs  were  feeble  with  the  weight 
of  years  and  of  former  sorrow.  In  his  appetites  easily  grati- 
fied, like  the  simple  race  of  people  among  whom  he  lived,  every 
want  of  existence  was  supplied  by  a  few  fertile  acres.  Those 
acres  were  tilled  and  tended  by  two  brothers,  grandsons  of  the 

^."Logic  and  sermons  never  convince."     ("Leaves  of  Grass,"  1917,  I,  p.  70.) 

2  From  the  Democratic  Review,  July,  1 842,  Vol.  XI,  pp.  83-86. 

This  unsuccessful  attempt  to  write  the  Hawthornesque  allegorical  tale  has,  perhaps, 
a  secondary  significance  because  of  the  fact  that  Whitman's  recent  return  to  the  city 
forced  upon  him  just  such  a  decision  as  he  describes  in  the  tale. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  79 

old  man,  and  dwellers  also  in  the  cottage.  The  parents  of  the 
boys  lay  buried  in  a  grave  near  by. 

Nathan,  the  elder,  had  hardly  seen  his  twentieth  summer. 
He  was  a  beautiful  youth.  Glossy  hair  clustered  upon  his  head, 
and  his  cheeks  were  brown  from  sunshine  and  open  air.  Though 
the  eyes  of  Nathan  were  soft  and  limpid,  like  a  girl's,  and  his 
cheeks  curled  with  a  voluptious  swell,  exercise  and  labor 
had  developed  his  limbs  into  noble  and  manly  proportions. 
The  bands  of  hunters,  as  they  met  sometimes  to  start  off  to- 
gether after  game  upon  the  neighboring  hills,  could  hardly 
show  one  among  their  number  who  in  comeliness,  strength,  or 
activity,  might  compete  with  the  youthful  Nathan. 

Mark  was  but  a  year  younger  than  his  brother.  He,  too, 
had  great  beauty. 

In  course  of  time  the  ancient  sickened,  and  knew  that  he 
was  to  die.  Before  the  approach  of  the  fatal  hour,  he  called 
before  him  the  two  youths,  and  addressed  them  thus: 

"The  world,  my  children,  is  full  of  deceit.  Evil  men  swarm 
in  every  place;  and  sorrow  and  disappointment  are  the  fruits 
of  intercourse  with  them.     So  wisdom  is  wary. 

"And  as  the  things  of  life  are  only  shadows,  passing  like  the 
darkness  of  the  cloud,  twine  no  bands  of  love  about  your  hearts. 
For  love  is  the  ficklest  of  the  things  of  life.  The  object  of  our 
affection  dies,  and  we  thenceforth  languish  in  agony;  or  perhaps 
the  love  we  covet  dies,  and  that  is  more  painful  yet. 

"It  is  well  never  to  conficle  in  any  man.  It  is  well  to  keep 
aloof  from  the  follies  and  impurities  of  earth.  Let  there  be  no 
links  between  you  and  others.  Let  not  any  being  control  you 
through  your  dependence  upon  him  for  a  portion  of  your  hap- 
piness. This,  my  sons,  I  have  learned  by  bitter  experience,  is 
the  teaching  of  truth." 

Within  a  few  days  afterward,  the  old  man  was  placed  away 
in  the  marble  tomb  of  his  kindred,  which  was  built  on  a  hill  by 
the  shore. 

Now  the  injunctions  given  to  Nathan  and  his  brother — in- 
junctions frequently  impressed  upon  them  before  by  the  same 
monitorial  voice — were  pondered  over  by  each  youth  in  his 
inmost  heart.  They  had  always  habitually  respected  their 
grandsire:  whatever  came  from  his  mouth,  therefore,  seemed  as 
the  words  of  an  oracle  not  to  be  gainsaid. 

Soon  the  path  of  Nathan  chanced  to  be  sundered  from  that  of 
Mark. 


8o  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

And  the  trees  leaved  out,  and  then  in  autumn  cast  their  foli- 
age; and  in  due  course  leaved  out  again,  and  again,  and  many- 
times  again — and  the  brothers  met  not  yet. 

Two  score  years  and  ten!  what  change  works  over  earth  in 
such  a  space  as  two  score  years  and  ten ! 

As  the  sun,  an  hour  ere  his  setting,  cast  long  slanting  shadows 
to  the  eastward,  two  men,  withered,  and  with  hair  thin  and 
snowy,  came  wearily  up  from  opposite  directions,  and  stood  to- 
gether at  a  tomb  built  on  a  hill  by  the  borders  of  a  fair  river. 
Why  do  they  start,  as  each  casts  his  dim  eyes  toward  the  face  of 
the  other?  Why  do  tears  drop  down  their  cheeks,  and  their 
frames  tremble  even  more  than  with  the  feebleness  of  age  ?  They 
are  the  long  separated  brothers,  and  they  enfold  themselves  in 
one  another's  arms. 

"And  yet,"  said  Mark,  after  a  few  moments,  stepping  back 
and  gazing  earnestly  upon  his  companion's  form  and  features, 
"  and  yet  it  wonders  me  that  thou  art  my  brother.  There  should 
be  a  brave  and  beautiful  youth,  with  black  curls  upon  his  head, 
and  not  those  pale  emblems  of  decay.  And  my  brother  should 
be  straight  and  nimble — not  bent  and  tottering  as  thou." 

The  speaker  cast  a  second  searching  glance — a  glance  of  dis- 
content. 

"And  I,"  rejoined  Nathan,  "I  might  require  from  my  brother, 
not  such  shrivelled  limbs  as  I  see — and  instead  of  that  cracked 
voice  the  full  swelling  music  of  a  morning  heart — but  that  half 
a  century  is  a  fearful  melter  of  comeliness  and  of  strength;  for 
half  a  century  it  is,  dear  brother,  since  my  hand  touched  thine, 
or  my  gaze  rested  upon  thy  face." 

Mark  sighed,  and  answered  not. 

Then,  in  a  little  while,  they  made  inquiries  about  what  had 
befallen  either  during  the  time  past.  Seated  upon  the  marble 
by  which  they  had  met,  Mark  briefly  told  his  story. 

"I  bethink  me,  brother,  many,  many  years  have  indeed 
passed  over  since  the  sorrowful  days  when  our  grandsire,  dying, 
left  us  to  seek  our  fortunes  amid  a  wicked  and  a  seductive  world. 

"His  last  words,  as  thou,  doubtless,  dost  remember,  advised 
us  against  the  snares  that  should  beset  our  subsequent  journey- 
ings.  He  portrayed  the  dangers  which  lie  in  the  path  of  love; 
he  impressed  upon  our  minds  the  folly  of  placing  confidence  in 
human  honor;  and  warned  us  to  keep  aloof  from  too  close 
communion  with  our  kind.  He  then  died  but  his  instructions 
lived,  and  have  ever  been  present  in  my  memory. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  81 

"Dear  Nathan,  why  should  I  conceal  from  you  that  at  that 
time  I  loved.  My  simple  soul,  ungifted  with  the  wisdom  of  our 
aged  relative,  had  yielded  to  the  delicious  folly,  and  the  brown- 
eyed  Eva  was  my  young  heart's  choice.  O  brother,  even  now — 
the  feeble  and  withered  thing  I  am — dim  recollections,  pleasant 
passages,  come  forth  around  me,  like  the  joy  of  old  dreams.  A 
boy  again,  and  in  the  confiding  heart  of  a  boy,  I  walk  with  Eva 
by  the  river's  bank.  And  the  gentle  creature  blushes  at  my 
protestations  of  love,  and  leans  her  cheek  upon  my  neck.  The 
regal  sun  goes  down  in  the  west,  and  we  gaze  upon  the  glory  of 
the  clouds  that  attend  his  setting,  and  while  we  look  at  their 
fantastic  changes,  a  laugh  sounds  out,  clear  like  a  flute,  and 
merry  as  the  jingling  of  silver  bells.     It  is  the  laugh  of  Eva." 

The  eye  of  the  old  man  glistened  with  unwonted  brightness. 
He  paused,  sighed,  the  brightness  faded  away,  and  he  went  on 
with  his  narration. 

"As  I  said,  the  dying  lessons  of  him  whom  we  reverenced  were 
treasured  in  my  soul.  I  could  not  but  feel  their  truth.  I  feared 
that  if  I  again  stood  beside  the  maiden  of  my  love,  and  looked 
upon  her  face,  and  listened  to  her  words,  the  wholesome  axioms 
might  be  blotted  from  my  thoughts,  so  I  determined  to  act  as 
became  a  man:  from  that  hour  I  never  have  beheld  the  brown- 
eyed  Eva. 

"I  went  amid  the  world.  Acting  upon  the  wise  principle 
which  our  aged  friend  taught  us,  I  looked  upon  everything 
with  suspicious  eyes.  Alas !  I  found  it  but  too  true  that  iniquity 
and  deceit  are  the  ruling  spirits  of  men. 

"Some  called  me  cold,  calculating,  and  unamiable;  but  it 
was  their  own  unworthiness  that  made  me  appear  so  to  their 
eyes.'  I  am  not — you  know,  my  brother — I  am  not,  naturally, 
of  proud  and  repulsive  manner;  but  I  was  determined  never  to 
give  my  friendship  merely  to  be  blown  off  again,  it  might  chance 
as  a  feather  by  the  wind;  nor  interweave  my  course  of  life  with 
those  that  very  likely  would  draw  all  the  advantage  of  the  con- 
nection, and  leave  me  no  better  than  before. 

"I  engaged  in  traffic.  Success  attended  me.  Enemies  said 
that  my  good  fortune  was  the  result  of  chance — but  I  knew  it 
the  fruit  of  the  judicious  system  of  caution  which  governed  me 
in  matters  of  business,  as  well  as  of  social  intercourse. 

"My  brother,  thus  have  I  lived  my  life.  Your  look  asks  me 
if  I  have  been  happy.  Dear  brother,  truth  impells  me  to  say 
no.    Yet,  assuredly,  if  few  glittering  pleasures  ministered  to  me 


82  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

on  my  journey,  equally  few  were  the  disappointments,  the 
hopes  blighted,  the  trusts  betrayed,  the  faintings  of  the  soul, 
caused  by  the  defection  of  those  in  whom  I  have  laid  up  treas- 
ures. 

"Ah,  my  brother,  the  world  is  full  of  misery!" 

The  disciple  of  a  wretched  faith  ceased  his  story,  and  there 
was  silence  a  while. 

Then  Nathan  spoke : 

"In  the  early  years,"  he  said,  "I  too  loved  a  beautiful  woman. 
Whether  my  heart  was  more  frail  than  thine,  or  affection  had 
gained  a  mightier  power  over  me,  I  could  not  part  from  her  I 
loved,  without  the  satisfaction  of  a  farewell  kiss.  We  met, — 
I  had  resolved  to  stay  but  a  moment, — for  I  had  chalked  out  my 
future  life  after  the  fashion  [in  which]  thou  hast  described 
thine. 

"How  it  was  I  know  not,  but  the  moments  rolled  on  to  hours; 
and  still  we  stood  with  our  arms  around  each  other. 

"My  brother,  a  maiden's  tears  washed  my  stern  resolves 
away.  The  lure  of  a  voice  rolling  quietly  from  two  soft  lips, 
enticed  me  from  remembrance  of  my  grandsire's  wisdom.  I 
forgot  his  teachings  and  married  the  woman  I  loved. 

"Ah!  how  sweetly  sped  the  seasons!  We  were  blessed. 
True,  there  came  crossings  and  evils;  but  we  withstood  them  all, 
and  holding  each  other  by  the  hand,  forgot  that  such  a  thing  as 
sorrow  remained  in  the  world. 

"Children  were  born  to  us — brave  boys  and  fair  girls.  Oh, 
Mark,  that,  that  is  a  pleasure — that  swelling  of  tenderness  for 
our  offspring — which  the  rigorous  doctrines  of  your  course  of 
life  have  withheld  from  you! 

"Like  you,  I  engaged  in  trade.  Various  fortunes  followed 
my  path.  I  will  not  deny  but  that  some  in  whom  I  thought 
virtue  was  strong  proved  cunning  hypocrites  and  worthy  no 
man's  trust.  Yet  are  there  many  I  have  known  [to  be]  spot- 
less, as  far  as  humanity  may  be  spotless. 

"Thus,  to  me,  life  has  been  alternately  dark  and  fair.  Have 
I  lived  happy? — No,  not  completely;  it  is  never  for  mortals  so  to 
be.  But  I  can  lay  my  hand  upon  my  heart  and  thank  the  Great 
Master  that  the  sunshine  has  been  far  oftener  than  the  darkness 
of  the  clouds. 

"Dear  brother,  the  world  had  misery — but  it  is  a  pleasant 
world  still,  and  affords  much  joy  to  the  dwellers!" 

As  Nathan  ceased,  his  brother  looked  up  in  his  face,  like 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  83 

a  man  unto  whom  a  simple  truth  had  been  for  the  first  time 
revealed. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  TEARS1 

High,  high  in  space  floated  the  angel  Alza.  Of  the  spirits 
who  minister  in  heaven,  Alza  is  not  the  chief;  neither  is  he  em- 
ployed in  deeds  of  great  import,  or  in  the  destinies  of  worlds 
and  generations.  Yet  if  it  were  possible  for  envy  to  enter 
among  the  Creatures  Beautiful,  many  would  have  pined  for  the 
station  of  Alza.  There  are  a  million  million  invisible  eyes  which 
keep  constant  watch  over  the  earth — each  Child  of  Light  having 
his  separate  duty.     Alza  is  one  of  the  angels  of  tears. 

Why  waited  he,  as  for  commands  from  above? 

There  was  a  man  upon  whose  brow  rested  the  stamp  of  the 
guilt  of  Cain.  The  man  had  slain  his  brother.  Now  he  lay 
in  chains  awaiting  the  terrible  day  when  the  doom  he  himself 
had  inflicted  should  be  meted  to  his  own  person. 

People  of  the  Black  Souls! — beings  whom  the  world  shrinks 
from,  and  whose  abode,  through  the  needed  severity  of  the 
law,  is  in  the  dark  cell  and  massy  prison — it  may  not  be  but 
that  ye  have,  at  times,  thoughts  of  the  beauty  of  virtue,  and 
the  blessing  of  a  spotless  mind.  For  if  we  look  abroad  in  the 
world,  and  examine  what  is  to  be  seen  there,  we  will  know,  that 
in  every  human  heart  resides  a  mysterious  prompting  which 
leads  it  to  love  goodness  for  its  own  sake.  All  that  is  rational 
has  this  prompting.  It  never  dies.  It  can  never  be  entirely 
stifled.  It  may  be  darkened  by  the  tempests  and  storms  of  guilt, 
but  ever  and  anon  the  clouds  roll  away,  and  it  shines  out  again. 
Murderers  and  thieves,  and  the  most  abandoned  criminals,  have 
been  unable  to  deaden  this  faculty. 

It  came  to  be,  that  an  hour  arrived  when  the  heart  of  the 
imprisoned  fratricide  held  strange  imagining.  Old  lessons 
and  long  forgotten  hints,  about  heaven,  and  purity,  and  love, 
and  gentle  kindness,  floated  into  his  memory — vacillating,  as  it 

^rom  the  Democratic  Review,  XI,  pp.  282-284,  September,  1842. 

Professor  Bliss  Perry  finds  this  sketch  "chiefly  interesting  as  proving  how  very  neatly 
the  young  journalist  could  play,  if  need  be,  upon  the  flute  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe."  (Loc. 
cit.  p.  24.)  As  this  shows  the  influence,  perhaps,  of  Poe's  prose-poetry,  so  "  Bervance; 
or  Father  and  Son"  shows  a  Poesque  decadence.  Tales  like  "A Legend  of  Life  and 
Love"  may  have  been  written  under  the  influence  of  another  contributor  to  the  Demo- 
cratic Review,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne;  but  if  so,  the  imitation  was  far  less  successful  in 
the  latter  case. 


84     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

were,  like  delicate  sea-flowers  on  the  bosom  of  the  turgid  ocean. 
He  remembered  him  of  his  brother  as  a  boy — how  they  played 
together  of  the  summer  afternoons — and  how,  wearied  out  at 
evening,  they  slept  pleasantly  in  each  other's  arms.  O,  Master 
of  the  Great  Laws!  Couldst  thou  but  roll  back  the  years  and 
place  that  guilty  creature  a  child  again  by  the  side  of  that 
brother!  Such  were  the  futile  wishes  of  the  criminal.  And  as 
repentance  and  prayer  worked  forth  from  his  soul,  he  sank 
on  the  floor  drowsily,  and  a  tear  stood  beneath  his  eyelids. 

Repentance  and  prayer  from  him  !  What  hope  could  there 
be  for  aspirations  having  birth  in  a  source  so  polluted?  Yet  the 
Sense  which  is  never  sleepless  heard  that  tainted  soul's  desire, 
and  willed  that  an  answering  mission  should  be  sent  straight- 
way. 

When  Alza  felt  the  mind  of  the  Almighty  in  his  heart — for  it 
was  rendered  conscious  to  him  in  the  moment — he  cleaved  the 
air  with  his  swift  pinions,  and  made  haste  to  perform  the  cheer- 
ful duty.  Along  and  earthward  he  flew — seeing  far,  far  below 
him  mountains,  and  towns,  and  seas,  and  stretching  forests. 
At  distance,  in  the  immeasurable  fields  wherein  he  travelled, 
was  the  eternal  glitter  of  countless  worlds — wheeling  and  whirl- 
ing, and  motionless  never.  After  a  brief  while,  the  Spirit  be- 
held the  city  of  his  destination;  and,  drawing  nigh,  he  hovered 
over  it — that  great  city  shrouded  in  the  depths  of  night,  and  its 
many  thousands  slumbering. 

Just  as  his  presence,  obedient  to  his  desire,  was  transferring 
itself  to  the  place  where  the  murderer  lay,  he  met  one  of  his 
own  kindred  spreading  his  wings  to  rise  from  the  ground. 

"O  Spirit,"  said  Alza,  "what  a  sad  scene  is  here!" 

"I  grow  faint,"  the  other  answered,  "at  looking  abroad 
through  these  guilty  places.     Behold  that  street  to  the  right." 

He  pointed,  and  Alza,  turning,  saw  rooms  of  people,  some 
with  their  minds  maddened  by  intoxication,  some  uttering  horrid 
blasphemies — sensual  creatures,  and  wicked,  and  mockers  of  all 
holiness. 

"O,  brother,"  said  the  Tear-Angel,  "let  us  not  darken  our 
eyes  with  the  sight.  Let  us  on  to  our  appointed  missions.  What 
is  yours,  my  brother?" 

"Behold!"  answered  the  Spirit. 

And  then  Alza  knew  for  the  first  time  that  there  was  a  third 
living  thing  near  by.  With  meek  and  abashed  gesture,  the 
soul  of  a  girl  just  dead  stood  forth  before  them.     Alza,  without 


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WHITMAN  S    EARLIEST   MANUSCRIPT 

A  letter  of  1842,  offering  for  publication  the  tale  which  begins  on 
the  opposite  page.  Reproduced  through  the  courtesy  of  the  owner, 
Mr.  Thomas  B.  Harned. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  85 

asking  his  companion,  saw  that  the  Spirit  had  been  sent  to  guide 
and  accompany  the  stranger  through  the  Dark  Windings. 

So  he  kissed  the  brow  of  the  re-born,  and  said, 

"  Be  of  good  heart !     Farewell,  both ! " 

And  the  soul  and  its  monitor  departed  upward,  and  Alza 
went  into  the  dungeon. 

Then,  like  a  swinging  vapor,  the  form  of  the  Tear-Angel 
was  by  and  over  the  body  of  the  sleeping  man.  To  his  vision 
night  was  as  day,  and  day  as  night. 

At  first,  something  like  a  shudder  went  through  him,  for 
when  one  from  the  Pure  Country  approaches  the  wickedness  of 
evil,  the  presence  thereof  is  made  known  to  him  by  an  instinctive 
pain.  Yet  a  moment,  and  the  gentle  Spirit  cast  glances  of  pity 
on  the  unconscious  fratricide.  In  the  great  Mystery  of  Life, 
Alza  remembered,  though  even  he  understood  it  not,  it  had  been 
settled  by  the  Unfathomable  that  Sin  and  Wrong  should  be. 
And  the  angel  knew  too,  that  Man,  with  all  the  darkness  and 
the  clouds  about  him,  might  not  be  contemned,  even  by  the 
Princes  of  the  Nighest  Circle  to  the  White  Throne. 

He  slept.  His  hair,  coarse  and  tangly  through  neglect, 
lay  in  masses  about  his  head,  and  clustered  over  his  neck.  One 
arm  was  doubled  under  his  cheek,  and  the  other  stretched 
straight  forward.  Long  steady  breaths,  with  a  kind  of  hissing 
sound,  came  from  his  lips. 

So  he  slumbered  calmly.  So  the  fires  of  a  furnace,  at  night, 
though  not  extinguished,  slumber  calmly,  when  its  swarthy 
ministers  impel  it  not.  Haply,  he  dreamed  some  innocent 
dream.  Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  outcast!  There  will  soon  be  for 
you  a  reality  harsh  enough  to  make  you  wish  those  visions  had 
continued  alway,  and  you  [had]  never  awakened. 

Oh,  it  is  not  well  to  look  coldly  and  mercilessly  on  the  bad 
done  by  our  fellows.  That  convict — that  being  of  the  bloody 
hand — who  could  know  what  palliations  there  were  for  his 
guilt?  Who  might  say  there  was  no  premature  seducing  aside 
from  the  walks  of  honesty — and  no  seed  of  evil  planted  by  others 
in  his  soul  during  his  early  years?  Who  should  tell  he  was  not 
so  bred  that  had  he  at  manhood  possessed  aught  but  propensi- 
ties for  evil  it  would  have  been  miraculous  indeed?  Who 
might  dare  cast  the  first  stone?1 

The  heart  of  a  man  is  a  glorious  temple;  yet  its  Builder  has 
seen  fit  to  let  it  become,  to  a  degree,  like  the  Jewish  structure 

lCf.  post,  I,  pp.  97-103,  108-110. 


86     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

of  old,  a  mart  for  gross  traffic,  and  the  presence  of  unchaste 
things.  In  the  Shrouded  Volumes  doubtless  it  might  be  per- 
ceived how  this  is  a  part  of  the  mighty  and  beautiful  Harmony; 
but  our  eyes  are  mortal,  and  the  film  is  over  them. 

The  Angel  of  Tears  bent  him  by  the  side  of  the  prisoner's 
head.  An  instant  more,  and  he  rose,  and  seemed  about  to 
depart;  as  one  whose  desire  had  been  attained.  Wherefore 
does  that  pleasant  look  spread  like  a  smile  over  the  features  of 
the  slumberer? 

In  the  darkness  overhead  yet  linger  the  soft  wings  of  Alza. 
Swaying  above  the  prostrate  mortal,  the  Spirit  bends  his  white 
neck,  and  his  face  is  shaded  by  the  curls  of  his  hair,  which 
hang  about  him  like  a  golden  cloud.  Shaking  the  beautiful 
tresses  back,  he  stretches  forth  his  hands,  and  raises  his  large 
eyes  upward,  and  speaks  murmuringly  in  the  language  used 
among  the  Creatures  Beautiful: 

"I  come.  Spirits  of  Pity  and  Love,  favored  children  of  the 
Loftiest1 — whose  pleasant  task  it  is  with  your  pens  of  adamant 
to  make  record  upon  the  Silver  Leaves  of  those  things  which, 
when  computed  together  at  the  Day  of  the  End,  are  to  outcancel 
the  weight  of  the  sum  of  evil — your  chambers  I  seek!" 

And  the  Angel  of  Tears  glided  away. 

While  a  thousand  air-forms,  far  and  near,  responded  in  the 
same  tongue  wherewith  Alza  had  spoken: 

"  Beautiful,  to  the  Eye  of  the  Centre,  is  the  sight  which  ushers 
repentance ! " 

ERIS;  A  SPIRIT  RECORD* 

Who  says  that  there  are  not  angels  or  invisible  spirits  watch- 
ing around  us?  The  teeming  regions  of  the  air  swarm  with 
bodiless  ghosts — bodiless  to  human  sight,  because  of  their  ex- 
ceeding and  too  dazzling  beauty! 

And  there  is  one,  childlike,  with  helpless  and  unsteady  move- 
ments, but  a  countenance  of  immortal  bloom,  whose  long- 
lashed  eyes  droop  downward.     The  name  of  the  Shape  is  Dai. 

lCf.  infray  p.  47;  and  post,  II,  p.  71. 

2From  the  Columbian  Magazine,  1, 3,  pp.  138-139,  March,  i&u..  The  fanciful  sketch 
was  announced  in  the  February  number  of  the  Columbian. 

In  Greek  mythology  Eris  was  the  goddess  of  discord,  daughter  of  Nyx  (Night),  sister 
of  Mars  (War),  and  mother  of  Strife.  It  was  she  who,  being  uninvited  to  the  nuptials 
of  Pelius  and  Thetis,  provoked  the  strife  among  the  goddesses  which  resulted  in  the 
Trojan  War. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  87 

'When  he  comes  near,  the  angels  are  silent,  and  gaze  upon  him 
with  pity  and  affection.  And  the  fair  eyes  of  the  Shape  roll, 
but  fix  upon  no  object;  while  his  lips  move,  but  a  plaintive  tone 
only  is  heard,  the  speaking  of  a  single  name.  Wandering  in  the 
confines  of  earth,  or  restlessly  amid  the  streets  of  the  beautiful 
land,  goes  Dai,  earnestly  calling  on  one  he  loves. 

Wherefore  is  there  no  response  ? 

Soft  as  the  feathery  leaf  of  the  frailest  flower — pure  as  the 
heart  of  flame — of  a  beauty  so  lustrous  that  the  sons  of  Heaven 
themselves  might  well  be  drunken  to  gaze  thereon — with  fleecy 
robes  that  but  half  apparel  a  maddening  whiteness  and  grace — 
dwells  Eris  among  the  creatures  beautiful,  a  chosen  and  cher- 
ished one.  And  Eris  is  the  name  called  by  the  wandering  angel 
— while  no  answer  comes,  and  the  loved  flies  swiftly  away,  with 
a  look  of  sadness  and  displeasure. 

It  had  been  years  before  that  a  maid  and  her  betrothed  lived 
in  one  of  the  pleasant  places  of  earth.  Their  hearts  clung  to 
one  another  with  the  fondness  of  young  life,  and  all  its  dreamy 
passion.  Each  was  simple  and  innocent.  Mortality  might 
not  know  a  thing  better  than  their  love,  or  more  sunny  than 
their  happiness. 

In  the  method  of  the  rule  of  fate,  it  was  ordered  that  the  maid 
should  sicken,  and  be  drawn  nigh  to  the  gates  of  death — nigh, 
but  not  through  them.  Now  to  the  young  who  love  purely 
High  Power  commissions  to  each  a  gentle  guardian,  who 
hovers  around  unseen  day  and  night.  The  office  of  this  spirit 
is  to  keep  a  sleepless  watch,  and  fill  the  heart  of  its  charge  with 
strange  and  mysterious  and  lovely  thoughts.  Over  the  maid 
was  placed  Dai,  and  through  her  illness  the  unknown  presence 
of  the  youth  hung  near  continually. 

To  the  immortal,  days,  years  and  centuries  are  the  same. 

Erewhile,  a  cloud  was  seen  in  Heaven.  The  delicate  ones 
bent  their  necks,  and  shook  as  if  a  chill  blast  had  swept  by — 
and  white  robes  were  drawn  around  shivering  and  terrified  forms. 

An  archangel  with  veiled  cheeks  cleared  the  air.  Silence 
spread  through  the  hosts  of  the  passed  away,  who  gazed  in 
wonder  and  fear.  And  as  they  gazed  they  saw  a  new  companion 
of  wondrous  loveliness  among  them — a  strange  and  timid  crea- 
ture, who,  were  it  not  that  pain  must  never  enter  those  borders 
of  innocence,  would  have  been  called  unhappy.  The  angels 
gathered  around  the  late  comer  with  caresses  and  kisses,  and 
they  smiled  pleasantly  with  joy  in  each  other's  eyes. 


88  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Then  the  archangel's  voice  was  heard — and  they  who  heard 
it  knew  that  One  mightier  spake  his  will  therein: 

"The  child  Dai!"  said  he. 

A  far  reply  sounded  out  in  tones  of  trembling  and  appre- 
hension. 

"I  am  here!" 

And  the  youth  came  forth  from  the  distant  confines,  whither 
he  had  been  in  solitude.  The  placid  look  of  peace  no  more  il- 
lumined his  brow  with  silver  light,  and  his  unearthly  beauty 
was  as  a  choice  statue  enveloped  in  mist  and  smoke. 

"Oh,  weak  and  wicked  spirit!"  said  the  archangel,  "thou 
hast  been  false  to  thy  mission  and  thy  Master!" 

The  quivering  limbs  of  Dai  felt  weak  and  cold.  He  would 
have  made  an  answer  in  agony — but  at  that  moment  he  lifted 
his  eyes  and  beheld  the  countenance  of  Eris,  the  late  comer. 

Love  is  potent,  even  in  Heaven!  and  subtle  passion  creeps  into 
the  hearts  of  the  sons  of  beauty,  who  feel  the  delicious  impulse, 
and  know  that  there  is  a  soft  sadness  sweeter  than  aught  in  the 
round  of  their  pleasure  eternal. 

When  the  youth  saw  Eris,  he  sprang  forward  with  lightning 
swiftness  to  her  side.  But  the  late  comer  turned  away  with 
aversion.  The  band  of  good-will  might  not  be  between  them, 
because  of  wrongs  done,  and  the  planting  of  despair  in  two 
happy  human  hearts. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  myriads  of  interlinked  spirits  that 
range  step  by  step  from  the  throne  of  the  Uppermost  (as  the 
power  of  that  light  and  presence  which  is  unbearable  even 
to  the  deathless,  must  be  tempered  for  the  sight  of  any  created 
thing,  however  lofty)  were  conscious  of  a  motion  in  the  mind 
of  God.  Quicker  than  electric  thought  the  command  was  ac- 
complished! The  disobedient  angel  felt  himself  enveloped  in  a 
sudden  cloud,  impenetrably  dark.  The  face  of  Eris  gladdened 
and  maddened  him  no  more.  He  turned  himself  to  and  fro,  and 
stretched  out  his  arms — but  though  he  knew  the  nearness  of  his 
companions,  the  light  of  Heaven,  and  of  the  eyes  of  Eris,  was 
strangely  sealed  to  him.     The  youth  was  blind  forever. 

So  a  wandering  angel  sweeps  through  space  with  restless  and 
unsteady  movements — and  the  sound  heard  from  his  lips  is  the 
calling  of  a  single  name.  But  the  loved  flies  swiftly  away  in 
sadness,  and  heeds  him  not.  Onward  and  onward  speeds  the 
angel,  amid  scenes  of  ineffable  splendor,  though  to  his  sight  the 
splendor  is  darkness.     But  there  is  one  scene  that  rests  before 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  89 

him  alway.  It  is  of  a  low  brown  dwelling  among  the  children  of 
men;  and  in  an  inner  room  a  couch,  whereon  lies  a  young  maid, 
whose  cheeks  rival  the  frailness  and  paleness  of  foam.  Near 
by  is  a  youth,  and  the  filmy  eyes  of  the  girl  are  bent  upon  him 
in  fondness.  What  dim  shape  hovers  overhead  ?  He  is  invisible 
to  mortals;  but  oh!  well  may  the  blind  spirit,  by  the  token  of 
throbs  of  guilty  and  fiery  love  beating  through  him,  know  that 
hovering  form!  Thrust  forward  by  such  fiery  love,  the  shape 
dared  transcend  his  duty.  Again  the  youth  looked  upon  the 
couch,  and  beheld  a  lifeless  corpse. 

This  is  the  picture  upon  the  vision  of  Dai.  His  brethren  of 
the  bands  of  light,  as  they  meet  him  in  his  journeyings,  pause 
awhile  for  pity;  yet  never  do  the  pangs  of  their  sympathy,  the 
only  pangs  known  to  those  sinless  creatures,  or  arms  thrown 
softly  around  him,  or  kisses  on  his  brow,  efface  the  pure  linea- 
ments of  the  sick  girl — the  dead. 

In  the  portals  of  Heaven  stands  Eris,  oft  peering  into  the 
outer  distance.  Nor  of  the  millions  of  winged  passengers 
that  hourly  come  and  go,  does  one  enter  whose  features  are  not 
earnestly  scanned  by  the  watcher.  And  the  fond  joy  resides 
in  her  soul,  that  the  time  is  nigh  at  hand;  for  a  thread  yet  binds 
the  angel  down  to  the  old  abode,  and  until  the  breaking  of  that 
bond,  Eris  keeps  vigil  in  the  portals  of  Heaven. 

The  limit  of  the  watch  comes  soon.  On  earth,  a  toil-worn 
man  has  returned  from  distant  travel,  and  lays  him  down, 
weary  and  faint  at  heart,  on  a  floor  amid  the  ruins  of  that  low 
brown  dwelling.  The  slight  echo  is  heard  of  moans  coming 
from  the  breast  of  one  who  yearns  to  die.  Life,  and  rosy  light, 
and  the  pleasant  things  of  nature,  and  the  voices  and  sight  of 
his  fellows,  and  the  glory  of  thought — the  sun,  the  flowers, 
the  glittering  stars,  the  soft  breeze — have  no  joy  for  him.  And 
the  coffin  and  the  cold  earth  have  no  horror;  they  are  a  path 
to  the  unforgotten. 

Thus  the  tale  is  told  in  Heaven,  how  the  pure  love  of  two 
human  beings  is  a  sacred  thing,  which  the  immortals  themselves 
must  not  dare  to  cross.  In  pity  to  the  disobedient  angel  he  is 
blind,  that  he  may  not  gaze  ceaselessly  on  one  who  returns  his 
love  with  displeasure.  And  haply  Dai  is  the  spirit  of  the  des- 
tiny of  those  whose  selfishness  would  seek  to  mar  the  peace 
of  gentle  hearts,  by  their  own  unreturned  and  unhallowed 
passion. 


9o  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

THE  LITTLE  SLEIGHERS1 

A  Sketch  of  a  Winter  Morning  on  the  Battery 

Just  before  noon,  one  day  last  winter,  when  the  pavements 
were  crusted  plentifully  with  ice-patches,  and  the  sun,  though 
shining  out  very  brightly  by  fits  and  starts,  seemed  incapable 
of  conveying  any  warmth,  I  took  my  thick  overcoat,  and  pre- 
pared to  sally  forth  for  a  walk.  The  wind  whistled  as  I  shut 
the  door  behind  me,  and  when  I  turned  the  corner  it  made  the 
most  ferocious  demonstrations  toward  my  hat,  which  I  was  able 
to  keep  on  my  head  not  without  considerable  effort.  My  flesh 
quivered  with  the  bitter  coldness  of  the  air.  My  breath  ap- 
peared steam.     Qu — foo-o!  how  the  gust  swept  along! 

Coming  out  into  Broadway,  I  wended  along  by  the  Park,  St. 
Paul's  Church,  and  the  icicle-tipped  trees  in  Trinity  graveyard. 
Having  by  this  time  warmed  myself  into  a  nice  glow,  I  grew  more 
comfortable,  and  felt  ready  to  do  any  deed  of  daring  that  might 
present  itself — even  to  the  defiance  of  the  elements  which  were 
growling  so  snappishly  around  me. 

When  I  arrived  at  Battery-place — at  the  crossing  which 
leads  from  that  antique,  two-story  corner  house,  to  the  massive 
iron  gates  on  the  opposite  side — I  must  confess  that  I  was  for  a 
moment  in  doubt  whether  I  had  not  better,  after  all,  turn  and 
retrace  my  steps.  The  wind  absolutely  roared.  I  could  hear 
the  piteous  creaking  of  the  trees  on  the  Battery  as  the  branches 
grated  against  one  another,  and  could  see  how  they  were  bent 
down  by  the  power  of  the  blast.  Out  in  the  bay  the  waves 
were  rolling  and  rising,  and  over  the  thick  rails  which  line  the 
shore-walk  dashed  showers  of  spray,  which  fell  upon  the  flag- 
stones and  froze  there. 

But  it  was  a  glorious  and  inspiriting  scene,  with  all  its  wildness. 
I  gave  an  extra  pull  of  my  hat  over  my  brows — a  closer  adjust- 
ment of  my  collar  around  my  shoulders,  and  boldly  ventured  on- 
ward.    I  stepped  over  the  crossing,  and  passed  through  the  gate. 

Ha!  ha!  Let  the  elements  run  riot!  There  is  an  exhilar- 
ating sensation — a  most  excellent  and  enviable  fun — in  steadily 
pushing  forward  against  the  stout  winds! 

»From  the  Columbian  Magazine ,  Vol.  II,  pp.  113-114,  September,  1844. 

This  sketch  was  written  before  July  1,  1844,  since  in  the  issue  of  the  Columbian  for 
September  of  that  year  the  editor,  in  accepting  the  present  sketch,  informed  corres- 
pondents that  contributions  had  all  been  read  up  to  July  1. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  91 

The  whole  surface  of  the  Battery  was  spread  with  snow.  It 
seemed  one  mighty  bride's  couch,  and  was  very  brilliant,  as 
though  varnished  with  a  clear  and  glossy  wash.  This  huge, 
white  sheet,  glancing  back  a  kind  of  impudent  defiance  to  the 
sun,  which  shone  sharply  the  while,  was  not,  it  seemed,  to  be 
left  in  its  repose,  or  without  an  application  to  use  and  jollity. 
Many  dozens  of  boys  were  there,  with  skates  and  small  sleds — 
very  busy.     Oh,  what  a  noisy  and  merry  band! 

The  principal  and  choicest  of  the  play  tracts  was  in  that  ave- 
nue, the  third  from  the  water,  known  to  summer  idlers  as 
"  Lovers'  Walk."  For  nearly  its  whole  length  it  was  a  continued 
expanse  of  polished  ice,  made  so  partly  by  the  evenness  of  the 
surface  and  partly  by  the  labor  of  the  boys.  This  fact  I  found 
out  to  my  cost;  for,  turning  in  it  before  being  aware  that  it  was 
so  fully  preoccupied  and  so  slippery,  I  found  it  necessary  to  use 
the  utmost  caution  or  run  the  certainty  of  a  fall. 

"Pawny-guttah!"  Gentle  lady,  (I  must  here  remark,)  or 
worthy  gentleman,  as  the  case  may  be,  whose  countenance 
bends  over  this  page,  and  whose  opportunities  have  never  led 
you  to  know  the  use,  meaning  and  import,  conveyed  in  the 
term  just  quoted — call  to  your  side  some  bright-eyed  boy — a 
brother  or  a  son,  or  a  neighbor's  son,  and  ask  him. 

"Pawny-guttah!"  I  stepped  aside  instinctively,  and,  with 
the  speed  of  an  arrow  there  came  gliding  along,  lying  prone  upon 
a  sled,  one  of  the  boyish  troop.  The  polished  steel  runners  of 
this  little  vehicle  sped  over  the  ice  with  a  slightly  grating  noise, 
and  he  directed  his  course  by  touching  the  toe  of  either  boot, 
behind  him,  upon  the  ice,  as  he  wished  to  swerve  to  the  right 
or  left. 

Who  can  help  loving  a  wild,  thoughtless,  heedless,  joyous 
boy  ?  Oh,  let  us  do  what  we  can — we  who  are  past  the  time — 
let  us  do  what  we  may  to  aid  their  pleasures  and  their  little 
delights,  and  heal  up  their  petty  griefs.  Wise  is  he  who  is  him- 
self a  child  at  times.  A  man  may  keep  his  heart  fresh  and  his 
nature  youthful,  by  mixing  much  with  that  which  is  fresh 
and  youthful.  Why  should  we,  in  our  riper  years,  despise  these 
little  people,  and  allow  ourselves  to  think  them  of  no  higher  con- 
sequence than  trifles  and  unimportant  toys? 

I  know  not  a  prettier  custom  than  that  said  to  be  prevalent 
in  some  parts  of  the  world,  of  covering  the  coffins  of  children  with 
flowers.1     They  pass  away,  frail  and  blooming,  and  the  blossom 

iCf.infra,?.  35. 


92  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

of  a  day  is  their  fittest  emblem.  Their  greatest  and  worst 
crimes  were  but  children's  follies,  and  the  sorrow  which  we  in- 
dulge for  their  death  has  a  delicate  refinement  about  it,  flowing 
from  ideas  of  their  innocence,  their  simple  prattle,  and  their 
affectionate  conduct  while  living.  Try  to  love  children.  It  is 
purer,  and  more  like  that  of  angels,  than  any  other  love. 

Reflections  somewhat  after  this  cast  were  passing  in  my  mind 
as  I  paused  a  moment  and  gazed  upon  those  little  players. 
What  a  miniature,  too,  were  they  of  the  chase  of  life.  Every 
one  seemed  intent  upon  his  own  puny  objects — every  one  in 
pursuit  of  "fun." 

The  days  will  come  and  go,  and  the  seasons  roll  on,  and  these 
young  creatures  will  grow  up  and  launch  out  in  the  world.  Who 
can  fortell  their  destinies?  Some  will  die  early  and  be  laid 
away  in  their  brown  beds  of  earth,  and  thus  escape  the  thousand 
throes,  and  frivolities,  and  temptations,  and  miserable  fictions 
and  mockeries  which  are  interwoven  with  our  journey  here  on 
earth.  Some  will  plod  onward  in  the  path  of  gain — that  great 
idol  of  the  world's  worship1 — and  have  no  higher  aspirations  than 
for  profit  upon  merchandize.  Some  will  love,  and  have  those 
they  love  look  coldly  upon  them;  and  then,  in  the  sickness  of 
their  heart,  curse  their  own  birth  hour.  But  all,  all  will  repose 
at  last.2 

Why,  what  a  sombre  moralist  I  have  become!  Better  were 
it  to  listen  to  the  bell-like  music  of  those  children's  voices;  and, 
as  I  turned  to  wend  my  way  homeward,  imbue  my  fancy  with 
a  kindred  glee  and  joyishness!  Let  me  close  these  mottled 
reveries. 


TEAR  DOWN  AND  BUILD  OVER  AGAIN3 

He  who  at  some  future  time  shall  take  upon  himself  the 
office  of  writing  the  early  history  of  what  is  done  in  America, 
and  of  how  the  American  character  was  started,  formed,  and 
finished — with  some  analysis  of  its  materials,  and  the  parts 
that  entered  from  time  to  time  into  its  make — will  surely  have 
much  cause  to  mention  what  may  be  called  "the  pull-down- 
and-build-over-again    spirit."     This    name    is    so    descriptive, 

iCf.  infra,  pp.  37-39,  45;  also  post,  I,  pp.  123-125,  II,  p.  63,  67-68. 

1  Cf.  the  poem  "We  All  Shall  Rest  At  Last,"  infra,  p.  10-11. 

3  From  the  American  Review,  Vol.  II,  pp.  536-538,  November,  1845. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  93 

that  it  hardly  needs  any  very  elaborate  explanation  to  tell  what 
is  meant  by  it. 

Simultaneously  with  the  departure  of  winter  last  April, 
(he  feigned  to  go  away,  it  will  be  remembered,  in  February,  but 
it  was  only  a  trick  of  the  old  rascal,  who  came  back  again  more 
grim  than  ever,  as  people's  frosty  noses  soon  bore  witness,)  and 
as  the  warmth  of  spring  penetrated  the  frozen  ground,  some  of 
those  subtle  agencies  that  hold  sway  over  the  human  will, 
penetrated  five  hundred  New  York  hearts  with  a  greater 
but  very  different  warmth.  Then  these  five  hundred  hearts 
prompted  their  owners  to  put  their  hats  on  their  heads  and 
walk  forth,  and  view  their  tenements  and  lands,  for  they  were 
men  of  substance.  Then  they  communed  with  themselves, 
and  said  in  their  own  hearts,  "Let  us  level  to  the  earth  all  the 
houses  that  were  not  built  within  the  last  ten  years;  let  us  raise 
the  devil  and  break  things!"  In  pursuance  of  this  resolve, 
they  procured  workmen,  purchased  hooks,  ladders  and  batter- 
ing rams,  and  went  to  work.  Then  fled  tenants  from  under  roofs 
that  had  sheltered  them  when  in  their  cradles,  and  had  wit- 
nessed their  parents'  marriages — roofs  aneath  which  they  had 
grown  up  from  childhood,  and  that  were  filled  with  mem- 
ories of  many  years.  Then  wept  old  men  and  old  women,  that 
they  were  not  to  die  within  the  walls  that  they  had  loved  so 
long — rather  a  foolish  weeping,  too,  when  we  consider  that  by 
staying  there  a  few  hours  longer  their  desire  could  have  been 
accomplished.  Then  fell  beams  and  rafters — then  were  un- 
earthed the  dust  and  decay  of  the  past — then  mortar  and  old 
lime,  originally  plastered  by  hands  the  worms  had  eaten  long  ago, 
filled  Manhattan  island  with  showers  almost  as  pestiferous  as 
the  sand-clouds  of  Sahara.  Then  exulted  each  jolly  Irishman 
who  owned,  or  could  hire,  a  dirt-cart  and  a  patient  horse — 
exulted,  and  was  to  be  talked  to  by  tax-paying  citizens,  not  as  a 
favor,  but  as  one  who  could  grant  a  favor.  Then  spoke  ham- 
mer to  axe,  which  spoke  again  to  pick,  while  their  triumphant 
din  was  answered  by  the  melancholy  fall  of  post,  cornice  and 
clapboard,  and  the  piteous  creaking  of  divorced  floors  and 
riven  ceilings.  Then  was  razed  to  the  ground  many  a  beam, 
rough-coated  on  the  outside,  but  stout  and  sound  at  heart, 
like  the  men  of  the  former  age ! 

Good-bye,  old  houses!  There  was  that  about  ye  which  I 
hold  it  no  shame  to  say  I  loved  passing  well.  It  is  true,  ye  had 
not  the  smart  jaunty  air,  the  brazen  varnished  look,  of  our  mod- 


94  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

ern  buildings;  but  I  liked  ye  all  the  better  for  it.  Ah!  how 
many  happy  gatherings  some  of  ye  have  held  in  your  capacious 
embrace,  years  ago !  Births  ,  too,  and  funerals  as  well,  might  ye 
tell  of.  Who  that  now  walks  the  pavement,  or  droops  away  on 
some  distant  shore,  a  gray-headed  and  care-worn  man,  yet  was 
In  your  knowledge  a  fair-lipped  baby,  and  a  playful  boy !  What 
vows  of  love  were  breathed  in  your  hearing,  and  passed  into  the 
air  to  disolve — but  passed  also  into  human  hearts,  waking  sweet 
echoes  where  now  are  the  ashes  of  decay  and  death !  Answer, 
ye  crumbling  walls!  have  ye  heard,  in  the  night's  silence,  no 
bitter  groans  from  young  men,  sickened  of  life,  even  before  they 
knew  its  darkest  trials,  and  wearied  with  themselves  and  their 
own  follies?  Have  ye  never  witnessed  solitary  tears,  shed  by 
eyes  the  world  got  only  glances  of  pride  and  coldness  from? 
Has  the  moaning  of  sick  children  vibrated  through  your  cham- 
bers, and  the  merry  shout  of  the  gay,  and  the  smooth  tongue  of 
wedded  affection,  and  the  manly  voice  of  true  friendship?  In 
awe  and  stillness  have  ye  beheld  death?  And  how  sped  the 
departing  then?  Looked  he  back  with  a  soul  fainting  at  its 
former  vanities,  or  cheerfully  like  a  soldier  over  the  conquered 
battle-field?  Ah!  deep  were  the  lessons  ye  might  teach,  could 
these  questionings  be  answered. 

Some  of  our  citizens — those  of  them  who  have  the  say  on 
the  subject — want  old  St.  Paul's  Church  pulled  down  and  built 
over  again.  When  we  come  to  consider  how  indecorous  it  is  to 
worship  our  Maker  in  a  place  whose  foundations  were  laid  near  a 
hundred  years  ago,  and  which  has  so  many  larger  and  hand- 
somer temples  around  it;  when  we  reflect  on  the  probable 
gratification  of  the  Lord  at  having  a  new  house,  of  such  greater 
convenience  and  splendor  than  the  old  one;  when  we  behold 
how  much  more  likely  Christians  are  to  entertain  humble,  meek 
and  heavenly  thoughts  in  a  church  of  marble,  guilding  [gilding] 
and  showy  carved  work,  than  in  one  of  a  plainer  make;  when  we 
remember  how  there  are  no  starving  poor  in  the  world,  no  chil- 
dren growing  up  totally  devoid  of  all  moral  or  scientific  instruc- 
tion for  want  of  means;  when  we  see  that  in  the  present  happy 
and  perfect  state  of  mankind  there  is  little  room  for  the  exercise 
of  that  virtue  whereof  Christ  said,  "Inasmuch  as  ye  refused  it 
to  the  least  of  these  your  brethren,  ye  refused  it  to  me;"  when 
we  are  so  clearly  convinced  that  it  is  consistent  for  doctrines 
teaching  love,  simplicity  and  contempt  for  worldly  show,  to  be 
expounded  in  a  place  whose  corner-stones  rest  upon  pride,  and 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  95 

whose  walls  are  built  in  vain-glory;  when  we  bethink  us  how 
good  it  is  to  leave  no  land-marks  of  the  past  standing,  no  pile 
honored  by  its  association  with  our  storied  names,  with  the 
undying  memory  of  our  Washington,  and  with  the  frequent 
presence  of  his  compatriots;  when  we  consider,  also,  what  a  sad 
botch  the  present  St.  Paul's  Church  is,  and  how  it  mars  the 
elegant  beauty  of  Clirehugh's  barber's  shop  on  the  opposite 
corner;  then  we  shall  feel  glad  and  delighted  at  the  sagacity 
which  has  discovered  the  pressing  need  there  is  for  a  better 
church,  and  eager  to  see  the  old  one  destroyed  forthwith. 
Moreover,  let  there  be  no  half-way  work  about  it.  Let  those 
miserable  old  trees  be  cut  away  at  the  same  time.  What 
good  do  they  there?  Why  cumber  they  the  ground?  There 
is  one  large  elm  in  particular,  whose  shade  falls  darkly  at  mid- 
day on  the  graves  of  two  men,  soldiers  who  fought  stoutly  for 
that  freedom  we  now  enjoy.  Let  that  old  elm  most  especially 
be  cut  down.  Its  wild  arms  would  split  with  horror  from  its 
blistered,  weather-beaten  trunk,  to  see  the  sacred  tombs  it  has 
so  long  stood  sentry  over,  desecrated  by  piles  of  brick  and  lime, 
for  a  spruce  new  church,  for  a  generation  that  should  "forget 
the  burial-places  of  their  fathers." 

Not  many  months  since,  amid  a  small,  slow-moving  proces- 
sion of  white-haired  ancients,  we  entered  that  building,  in  at- 
tendance on  the  funeral  ceremonies  of  General  Morgan  Lewis 
the  chief  officer  of  the  Society  of  the  Cincinnati.  It  was  a 
chilling,  solemn  business.  As  we  sat  in  one  of  the  side  pews,  we 
looked  around  at  the  few  withered  men,  the  remnants  of  the 
Revolution,  the  testimony  of  old  times,  that  were  near  us. 
Erect  and  stern,  unbent  with  age,  there  was  one  whose  eyes 
had  been  undismayed  with  the  smoke  of  Bunker  Hill,  and  who 
had  faltered  not  after  the  hapless  battle  of  Long  Island.  Those 
dim  gray  orbs,  moreover,  had  gazed  upon  that  paragon  of  men, 
whose  glory  is  almost  more  than  mortal.  "I  was  with  him 
here,"  I  heard  him  say,  an  hour  afterwards,  "to  give  thanks 
after  the  British  had  left  the  city."  With  Washington  there  ! 
Oh,  hallowed  be  the  spot  where  his  footsteps  fell!  Thrice  hal- 
lowed be  the  temple  where  the  purest  prayers  ever  breathed 
from  a  patriot's  heart,  went  forth  toward  Heaven!1 

There  may  be,  and  no  doubt  are,  those  in  this  utilitarian  age 
who  will  smile  with  contempt  at  sympathies  like  these,  if 
offered  as  reasons  why  St.  Paul's  Church  here,  or  any  other 

lCf.  infra,  pp.  72-78;  post,  II,  pp.  117—118. 


96  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

such  noble  old  building,  shall  not  give  place  to  modern  "im- 
provements." Thank  Heaven!  there  are  also  those  who  can 
enter  into  such  feelings,  and  act  upon  them.  There  are  those 
whose  ideas  of  beauty,  worth  and  grandeur  are  not  altogether 
fixed,  as  far  as  such  things  are  concerned,  on  buildings  of  im- 
posing height,  great  breadth,  and  showy  exterior.  There  are 
those  who  would,  in  examining  some  crowded  city,  hold  more 
attention  for  that  spot  in  an  obscure  street  where  the  early 
days  of  an  undying  genius  were  passed  than  for  the  proudest 
palace  owned  by  the  richest  capitalist.  There  are  those  who 
would  go  farther  to  view  even  Charlotte  Temple's  grave,  than 
Mr.  Astor's  stupid-looking  house  in  Broadway1 — would  bear 
more  bother  for  a  sight  of  the  "Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms," 
than  to  scan — when  it  is  completed — the  famous  Girard  College. 
To  such,  greatness  and  goodness  are  things  intrinsic — mental 
and  moral  qualities.  To  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  that  is 
nine-tenths  of  it,  appearance  is  everything.  And  yet,  perhaps 
I  am  wrong.  It  is  the  world,  which  in  spite  of  itself,  pays 
homage  to  every  sacred  spot  where  a  great  deed  has  been  per- 
formed, or  which  a  truly  great  man  has  sanctified  by  birth  or 
death.  Can  Irishmen  forget  where  Emmet  lies  buried,  that  it 
should  be  marked  by  no  grave-stone,  and  the  proudest  columns 
loom  up  everywhere  around?  And  how  many  centuries  will 
bring  the  day  when  Mount  Vernon  is  an  indifferent  spot  to 
America? 

Let  us  not  be  mistaken.  We  are  by  no  means  desirous  of  re- 
taining what  is  old,  merely  because  it  is  old.  We  would  have 
all  dilapidated  buildings,  as  well  as  all  ruinous  laws  and  customs, 
carefully  levelled  to  the  ground,  forthwith,  and  better  ones  put 
in  their  places.  Wherever  the  untiring  fingers  of  time  have  done 
their  work  of  decay,  there  we  would  neutralize  the  danger  with 
the  hand  of  reformation — imitating  thus  the  great  copy  of 
Nature,  the  mother  of  the  only  wise  philosophy.  No  friend  are 
we  to  the  rotten  structures  of  the  past,  either  of  architecture  or 
government.  It  is  only  where  upstarts  would  pull  down  some- 
thing noble,  stout  and  true,  that  we  cry,  "Stay  your  hand, 
leveler!"  It  is  only  when  honorable  and  holy  memorials  of 
the  good  which  the  past  has  sent  us,  with  its  many  evils,  is 
jeopardized,  that  we  would  raise  our  voice  in  warning  and  in- 
dignation. To  all  destruction  which  is  a  necessary  precedent 
to  man's  glory,  comfort,  or  freedom,  we  say,  "God  speed!"  and 

1c/.postyi,  p.  219. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  97 

are  willing  to  lend  our  humble  strength  withal!  This,  but  no 
more.  What  we  have  that  is  good,  that  is  fully  equal  to  our 
present  capacities  and  wants,  that,  if  destroyed,  would  doubtless 
be  replaced  by  something  not  half  as  excellent:  let  it  stand! 

And  I  must  add — and  I  hope  it  is  [in]  no  spirit  of  harshness — 
that  whoever  is  opposed  to  such  conservatism,  whoever  moves 
under  the  impulse  of  a  rabid,  feverish  itching  for  change,  a 
dissatisfaction  with  proper  things  as  they  are,  through  the 
blindness  which  would  peril  all  in  the  vague  chance  of  a  remotely 
possible  improvement,  has  something  of  the  same  mischief 
of  the  soul  that  "brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  wo," 1 
a  prompting  which,  even  though  it  comes  to  put  up  a  new 
church,  comes  from  that  father  of  restlessness,  the  Devil. 


A  DIALOGUE2 

What  would  be  thought  of  a  man  who,  having  an  ill  humor 
in  his  blood,  should  strive  to  cure  himself  by  only  cutting  off  the 
festers,  the  outward  signs  of  it,  as  they  appeared  upon  the  sur- 
face ?  Put  criminals  for  festers  and  society  for  the  diseased  man, 
and  you  may  get  the  spirit  of  that  part  of  our  laws  which  ex- 
pects to  abolish  wrong-doing  by  sheer  terror — by  cutting  off 
the  wicked,  and  taking  no  heed  of  the  causes  of  wickedness. 
I  have  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  national  folly  never  de- 
serves contempt;  else  I  should  laugh  to  scorn  such  an  instance 
of  exquisite  nonsense ! 

Our  statutes  are  supposed  to  speak  the  settled  will  and  voice 
of  the  community.  We  may  imagine,  then,  a  conversation 
of  the  following  sort  to  take  place — the  imposing  majesty  of  the 
people  speaking  on  the  one  side,  a  pallid,  shivering  convict  on 
the  other. 

"I  have  done  wrong,"  says  the  convict;  "in  an  evil  hour  a 
kind  of  frenzy  came  over  me,  and  I  struck  my  neighbor  a  heavy 
blow,  which  killed  him.  Dreading  punishment,  and  the  dis- 
grace of  my  family,  I  strove  to  conceal  the  deed,  but  it  was  dis- 
covered." 

"Then,"  says  society,  "you  must  be  killed  in  return." 

^'Paradise  Lost,"  I, 1.  3. 

2  From  the  Democratic  Review,  Vol.  XVII,  pp.  360-364,  November,  1845. 
Cf.  post,  I,  pp.   108-110,  II,  pp. 15-16.    There  were  many  editorials  on  the  subject  in 
the  Eagle  during  Whitman's  editorship. 


98  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

"But,"  rejoins  the  criminal,  "I  feel  that  I  am  not  fit  to  die. 
I  have  not  enjoyed  life — I  have  not  been  happy  or  good.  It 
is  so  horrid  to  look  back  upon  one's  evil  deeds  only.  Is  there 
no  plan  by  which  I  can  benefit  my  fellow-creatures,  even  at  the 
risk  of  my  own  life  ? " 

"None,"  answers  society;  "you  must  be  strangled — choked 
to  death.  If  your  passions  are  so  ungovernable  that  people  are 
in  danger  from  them,  we  shall  hang  you." 

"Why  that?"  asks  the  criminal,  his  wits  sharpened  perhaps 
by  his  situation.  "Can  you  not  put  me  in  some  strong  prison, 
where  no  one  will  be  harmed  by  me?  And  if  the  expense  is 
anything  against  this,  let  me  work  there,  and  support  my- 
self." 

"No,"  responds  society,  "we  shall  strangle  you;  your  crimes 
deserve  it." 

"Have  you,  then,  committed  no  crimes?"  asks  the  murderer. 

"None  which  the  law  can  touch,"  answers  society. 

"True,  one  of  us  had  a  mother,  a  weak-souled  creature,  that 
pined  away  month  after  month,  and  at  last  died,  because  her 
dear  son  was  intemperate,  and  treated  her  ill.  Another,  who  is 
the  owner  of  many  houses  thrusts  a  sick  family  into  the  street 
because  they  did  not  pay  their  rent,  whereof  came  the  deaths  of 
two  little  children.  And  another — that  particularly  well- 
dressed  man — effected  the  ruin  of  a  young  girl,  a  silly  thing  who 
afterward  became  demented,  and  drowned  herself  in  the  river. 
One  has  gained  much  wealth  by  cheating  his  neighbors — but 
cheating  so  as  not  to  come  within  the  clutches  of  any  statute. 
And  hundreds  are  now  from  day  to  day  practising  deliberately 
the  most  unmanly  and  wicked  meannesses.     We  are  all  frail ! " 

"And  these  are  they  who  so  sternly  clamor  for  my  blood!" 
exclaims  the  convict  in  amazement.  "Why  is  it  that  I  alone 
am  to  be  condemned?" 

"That  they  are  bad,"  rejoins  society,  "is  no  defense  for  you." 

"That  the  multitude  have  so  many  faults — that  none  are 
perfect,"  says  the  criminal,  "might  at  least  make  them  more 
lenient  to  me.  If  my  physical  temperament  subjects  me  to 
great  passions,  which  lead  me  into  crime,  when  wronged  too — 
as  I  was  when  I  struck  that  fatal  blow — is  there  not  charity 
enough  among  you  to  sympathize  with  me — to  let  me  not  be 
hung,  but  safely  separated  from  all  that  I  might  harm?" 

"There  is  some  reason  in  what  you  say,"  answers  society; 
"  but  the  clergy,  who  hate  the  wicked,  say  that  God's  own  voice 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  99 

has  spoken  against  you.  We  might,  perhaps,  be  willing  to 
let  you  off  with  imprisonment;  but  Heaven  imperatively  forbids 
it,  and  demands  your  blood.  Besides,  that  you  were  wronged 
gave  you  no  right  to  revenge  yourself  by  taking  life." 

"Do  you  mean  me  to  understand,  then,"  asks  the  convict, 
"  that  Heaven  is  more  blood-thirsty  than  you  ?  And  if  wrong 
gives  no  right  to  revenge,  why  am  I  arraigned  thus?" 

"The  case  is  different,"  rejoins  society.  "We  are  a  com- 
munity— you  are  but  a  single  individual.  You  should  forgive 
your  enemies." 

"And  are  you  not  ashamed,"  asks  the  culprit,  "to  forget  that 
as  a  community  which  you  expect  me  to  remember  as  a  man? 
While  the  town  clock  goes  wrong,  shall  each  little  private  watch 
be  abused  for  failing  to  keep  the  true  time?  What  are  com- 
munities but  congregated  individuals?  And  if  you,  in  the  po- 
tential force  of  your  high  position,  deliberately  set  examples  of 
retribution,  how  dare  you  look  to  me  for  self-denial,  forgiveness, 
and  the  meekest  and  most  difficult  virtues?" 

"I  cannot  answer  such  questions,"  responds  society;  "but 
if  you  propose  no  punishment  for  the  bad,  what  safety  is  there 
for  citizens'  rights  and  peace,  which  would  then  be  in  continual 
jeopardy?" 

"You  cannot,"  says  the  other,  "call  a  perpetual  jail  no  pun- 
ishment. It  is  a  terrible  one.  And  as  to  your  safety,  it  will  be 
outraged  less  by  mild  and  benevolent  criminal  laws  than  by 
sanguinary  and  revengeful  ones.  They  govern  the  insane 
better  with  gentleness  than  severity.  Are  not  men  possessing 
reason  more  easily  acted  on  through  moral  force  than  men  with- 
out?" 

"But,  I  repeat  it,  crimes  will  then  multiply,"  says  society 
(not  having  much  else  to  say);  "the  punishment  must  be  severe, 
to  avoid  that.  Release  the  bad  from  the  fear  of  hanging,  and 
they  will  murder  every  day.  We  must  preserve  that  penalty  to 
prevent  this  taking  of  life." 

"I  was  never  ignorant  of  the  penalty,"  answers  the  criminal; 
"and  yet  I  murdered,  for  my  blood  was  up.  Of  all  the  homi- 
cides committed,  not  one  in  a  hundred  is  done  by  persons  un- 
aware of  the  law.  So  that  you  see  the  terror  of  death  does 
not  deter.  The  hardened  and  worst  criminals,  too,  frequently 
have  no  such  terror,  while  the  more  repentant  and  humanized 
suffer  in  it  the  most  vivid  agony.  At  least  you  could  try  the 
experiment  of  no  hanging." 


ioo  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

"It  might  cost  too  much.  Murder  would  increase,' '  reiter- 
ates society. 

"Formerly,"  replies  the  criminal,  "many  crimes  were  pun- 
ished by  death  that  now  are  not;  and  yet  those  crimes  have 
not  increased.  Not  long  since  the  whipping-post  and  branding- 
iron  stood  by  the  bar  of  courts  of  justice,  and  were  often  used, 
too.  Yet  their  abolition  has  not  multiplied  the  evils  for  which 
they  were  meted  out.  This,  and  much  more,  fully  proves  that 
it  is  by  no  means  the  dread  of  terrible  punishment  which  pre- 
vents terrible  crime.  And  now  allow  me  to  ask  you  a  few 
questions.  Why  are  most  modern  executions  private,  so  called, 
instead  of  public  ? " 

"Because,"  answers  society,  "the  influence  of  the  spectacle 
is  degrading  and  anti-humanizing.  As  far  as  it  goes,  it  begets  a 
morbid  and  unhealthy  feeling  in  the  masses." 

"Suppose  all  the  convicts,"  goes  on  the  prisoner,  "adjudged 
to  die  in  one  of  your  largest  States,  were  kept  together  for  two 
whole  years,  and  then  in  the  most  public  part  of  the  land  were 
hung  up  in  a  row — say  twenty  of  them  together — how  would 
this  do?" 

"God  forbid!"  answers  society  with  a  start.  "The  public 
mind  would  revolt  at  so  bloody  and  monstrous  a  demonstra- 
tion.    It  could  not  be  allowed. " 

"Is  it  anything  less  horrible,"  resumes  the  questioner,  "in 
the  deaths  being  singly  and  at  intervals?" 
"I  cannot  say  it  is,"  answers  society. 

"Allow  me  to  suppose  a  little  more,"  continues  the  criminal, 
"that  all  the  convicts  to  be  hung  in  the  whole  republic  for  two 
years — say  two  hundred,  and  that  is  a  small  estimate — were 
strangled  at  the  same  time,  in  full  sight  of  every  man,  woman 
and  child — all  the  remaining  population.  And  suppose  this 
were  done  periodically  every  two  years.  What  say  you  to 
that?" 

"The  very  thought  sickens  me,"  answers  society,  "and  the 
effect  would  be  more  terrible  and  blighting  upon  the  national 
morals  and  the  health  of  the  popular  heart  than  it  is  any  way 
possible  to  describe.  No  unnatural  rites  of  the  most  barbarous 
and  brutal  nations  of  antiquity  ever  equalled  this;  and  our 
name  would  always  deserve  to  be  written  literally  in  characters 
of  blood.  The  feeling  of  the  sacredness  of  life  would  be  utterly 
destroyed  among  us.  Every  fine  and  Christian  faculty  of  our 
souls  would  be  rooted  away.    In  a  few  years,  this  hellish  obla- 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  101 

tion  becoming  common,  the  idea  of  violent  death  would  be  the 
theme  of  laughter  and  ribald  jesting.  In  all  the  conduct  and 
opinions  of  men,  in  their  every-day  business,  and  in  their  private 
meditations,  so  terrible  an  institution  would  some  way,  in  some 
method  of  its  influence,  be  seen  operating.  What!  two  hundred 
miserable  wretches  at  once!  The  tottering  old,  and  the  youth 
not  yet  arrived  at  manhood;  women,  too,  and  perhaps  girls  who 
are  hardly  more  than  children!  The  spot  where  such  a  deed 
should  be  periodically  consummated  would  surely  be  cursed 
forever  by  God  and  all  goodness  Some  awful  and  poisonous 
desert  it  ought  to  be;  though,  however  awful,  it  could  but  faintly 
image  the  desert  such  horrors  must  make  of  the  heart  of  man, 
and  the  poison  it  would  diffuse  on  his  better  nature." 

"And  if  all  this  appalling  influence,"  says  the  murderer, 
"were  really  operating  over  you — not  concentrated,  but  cut  up 
in  fractions  and  frittered  here  and  there — just  as  strong  in  its 
general  effect,  but  not  brought  to  a  point,  as  in  the  case  I  have 
imagined — what  would  you  then  say?" 

"Nay,"  replies  society,  with  feverish  haste,  "but  the  exe- 
cutions are  now  required  to  be  private." 

"Many  are  not,"  rejoins  the  other;  "and  as  to  those  that  are 
nominally  so,  where  everybody  reads  newspapers,  and  every 
newspaper  seeks  for  graphic  accounts  of  these  executions,  such 
things  can  never  be  private.  What  a  small  proportion  of  your 
citizens  are  eye-witnesses  of  things  done  in  Congress;  yet  they 
are  surely  not  private,  for  not  a  word  officially  spoken  in  the 
Halls  of  the  Capitol,  but  is  through  the  press  made  as  public  as 
if  every  American's  ear  were  within  hearing  distance  of  the 
speaker's  mouth.  The  whole  spectacle  of  those  two  hundred 
executions  is  more  faithfully  seen,  and  much  more  deliberately 
dwelt  upon,  through  the  printed  narratives,  than  if  people  beheld 
it  with  their  bodily  eyes,  and  then  no  more.  Print  preserves  it. 
It  passes  it  from  hand  to  hand,  and  even  boys  and  girls  are  im- 
bued with  its  spirit  and  horrid  essence.  Your  legislators  have 
forbidden  public  executions;  they  must  go  farther.  They 
must  forbid  the  relation  of  them  by  tongue,  letter,  or  picture; 
for  your  physical  sight  is  not  the  only  avenue  through  which 
the  subtle  virus  will  reach  you.  Nor  is  the  effect  lessened  be- 
cause it  is  more  covert  and  more  widely  diffused.  Rather, 
indeed,  the  reverse.  As  things  are,  the  masses  take  it  for 
granted  that  the  system  and  its  results  are  right.  As  I  have 
supposed  them  to  be,  though  the  nature  would  remain  the 


102  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

same,  the  difference  of  the  form  would  present  the  monstrous 
evil  in  a  vivid  and  utterly  new  light  before  men's  eyes." 

"To  all  this,"  says  society,  "I  answer — what"?  What  shall 
it  be,  thou  particular  reader,  whose  eyes  now  dwell  on  my  fanci- 
ful dialogue  ?  Give  it  for  thyself — and  if  it  be  indeed  an  answer^ 
thou  hast  a  logic  of  most  surpassing  art. 

O,  how  specious  is  the  shield  thrown  over  wicked  actions, 
by  invoking  the  Great  Shape  of  Society  in  their  defense !  How 
that  which  is  barbarous,  false,  or  selfish  for  an  individual  be- 
comes singularly  proper  when  sanctioned  by  the  legislature,  or 
a  supposed  national  policy!  How  deeds  wicked  in  a  man  are 
thus  applauded  in  a  number  of  men ! 

What  makes  a  murder  the  awful  crime  all  ages  have  consid- 
ered it?  The  friend  and  foe  of  hanging  will  unite  in  the  reply 
— Because  it  destroys  that  cunning  principle  of  vitality  which 
no  human  agency  can  replace — invades  the  prerogative  of  God, 
for  God's  is  the  only  power  that  can  give  life — and  offers  a 
horrid  copy  for  the  rest  of  mankind.  Lo!  thou  lover  of  strang- 
ling! with  what  a  keen  razor's  sharpness  does  every  word  of 
this  reply  cut  asunder  the  threads  of  that  argument  which 
defends  thy  cause!  The  very  facts  which  render  murder  a 
frightful  crime,  render  hanging  a  frightful  punishment.  To 
carry  out  the  spirit  of  such  a  system,  when  a  man  maims  an- 
other, the  law  should  maim  him  in  return.  In  the  unsettled 
districts  of  our  western  states,  it  is  said  that  in  brutal  fights  the 
eyes  of  the  defeated  are  sometimes  torn  bleeding  from  their 
sockets.  The  rule  which  justifies  the  taking  of  life,  demands 
gouging  out  of  eyes  as  a  legal  penalty  too. 

I  have  one  point  else  to  touch  upon,  and  then  no  more. 
There  has,  about  this  point,  on  the  part  of  those  who  favor 
hanging,  been  such  a  bold,  impudent  effrontery — such  a  cool 
sneering  defiance  of  all  those  greater  lights  which  make  the 
glory  of  this  age  over  the  shame  of  the  dark  ages — a  prostitution 
so  foul  of  names  and  influences  so  awfully  sacred — that  I  trem- 
ble this  moment  with  passion,  while  I  treat  upon  it.  I  speak 
of  founding  the  whole  breadth  and  strength  of  the  hanging 
system,  as  many  do,  on  the  Scriptures.  The  matter  is  too 
extensive  to  be  argued  fully,  in  the  skirts  of  an  essay;  and  I  have 
therefore  but  one  suggestion  to  offer  upon  it,  though  words 
and  ideas  rush  and  swell  upon  my  utterance.  When  I  read  in 
the  records  of  the  past  how  Calvin  burned  Servetus  at  Geneva, 
and  found  his  defense  in  the  Bible — when  I  peruse  the  reign  of 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  103 

the  English  Henry  8th,  that  great  champion  of  Protestantism, 
who,  after  the  Reformation,  tortured  people  to  death,  for  re- 
fusing to  acknowledge  his  spiritual  supremacy,  and  pointed 
to  the  Scripture  as  his  authority — when,  through  the  short 
reign  of  Edward  6th,  another  Protestant  sovereign,  and  of  the 
Bloody  Mary,  a  Catholic  one,  I  find  the  most  barbarous  cruel- 
ties and  martyrdoms  inflicted  in  the  name  of  God  and  his  Sacred 
Word — I  shudder  and  grow  sick  with  pity.  Still  I  remember 
the  gloomy  ignorance  of  the  law  of  love  that  prevailed  then,  and 
the  greater  palliations  for  bigotry  and  religious  folly.  I  be- 
think me  how  good  it  is  that  the  spirit  of  such  horrors,  the  blas- 
phemy which  prostituted  God's  law  to  their  excuse,  and  the 
darkness  of  superstition  which  applauded  them,  have  all  passed 
away.  But  in  these  days  of  greater  clearness,  when  clergymen 
call  for  sanguinary  punishments  in  the  name  of  the  Gospel!1 — 
when,  chased  from  point  to  point  of  human  policy,  they  throw 
themselves  on  the  supposed  necessity  of  hanging  in  order  to 
gratify  and  satisfy  Heaven — when,  instead  of  Christian  mild- 
ness and  love,  they  demand  that  our  laws  shall  be  pervaded  by 
vindictiveness  and  violence — when  the  sacrifice  of  human  life 
is  inculcated  as  in  many  cases  acceptable  to  Him  who  they  say 
has  even  revoked  his  consent  to  brute  sacrifices — my  soul  is  filled 
with  amazement,  indignation  and  horror,  utterly  uncontrol- 
lable. When  I  go  by  a  church,  I  cannot  help  thinking  whether 
its  walls  do  not  sometimes  echo,  "  Strangle  and  kill  in  the  name 
of  God!"  The  grasp  of  a  minister's  hand  produces  a  kind  of 
choking  sensation;  and  by  some  kind  of  optical  fascination, 
the  pulpit  is  often  intercepted  from  my  view  by  a  ghastly  gal- 
lows frame.  "  O,  Liberty ! "  said  Madame  Roland,  "  what  crimes 
have  been  committed  in  thy  name!"2  "O,  Bible!"  say  I, 
"what  follies  and  monstrous  barbarities  are  defended  in  thy 
name!" 

iln  1842  the  Rev.  W.  Patton,  D.D.,  published  a  pamphlet  in  New  York  entitled  "Cap- 
ital Punishment  Sustained  by  the  Word,"  and  a  similar  volume  had  been  published  by  the 
Rev.  George  B.  Cheever  in  1843.  The  Brother  Jonathan  and  the  Democratic  Review 
had  espoused  the  opposite  side  of  the  controversy,  the  latter  publishing,  in  March,  1842, 
a  reply  to  Wordsworth's  "Sonnets  on  the  Punishment  of  Death"  and  in  October  of  the 
same  year  Whittier's  "Lines  on  the  Abolition  of  the  Gallows,"  while  Lowell  had  five 
sonnets  in  reply  to  Wordsworth  in  the  issue  for  May. 

In  old  age  Whitman  said:  "I  was  in  early  life  very  bigoted  in  my  anti-slavery,  anti- 
capital-punishment  and  so  on,  but  I  have  always  had  a  latent  toleration  for  the  people 
who  choose  a  reactionary  course."     (See  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  I,  p.  193.) 

»"0  Liberty!  Liberty!  how  many  crimes  are  committed  in  thy  name!"  (Quoted  in 
Macaulay's  "Essay  on  Mirabeau.") 


io4  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

ART-SINGING  AND  HEART-SINGING1 

Great  is  the  power  of  Music  over  a  people!  As  for  us  of 
America,  we  have  long  enough  followed  obedient  and  child-like 
in  the  track  of  the  Old  World.  We  have  received  her  tenors 
and  her  buffos  [buffas];  her  operatic  troupes  and  her  vocalists,  of 
all  grades  and  complexions;  listened  to  and  applauded  the  songs 
made  for  a  different  state  of  society — made,  perhaps,  by  royal 
genius,  but  made  to  please  royal  ears  likewise;  and  it  is  time 
that  such  listening  and  receiving  should  cease.  The  subtlest 
spirit  of  a  nation  is  expressed  through  its  music — and  the  music 
acts  reciprocally  on  the  nation's  very  soul.  Its  effects  may 
not  be  seen  in  a  day,  or  a  year,  and  yet  these  effects  are  potent 
invisibly.  They  enter  into  religious  feelings — they  tinge  the 
manners  and  morals — they  are  active  even  in  the  choice  of  leg- 
islators and  high  magistrates.  Tariff  can  be  varied  to  fit  cir- 
cumstances— bad  laws  can  be  obliterated  and  good  ones  formed 
— those  enactments  which  relate  to  commerce  or  national 
policy,  built  up  or  taken  away,  stretched  or  contracted,  to  suit 
the  will  of  the  government  for  the  time  being.  But  no  human 
power  can  thoroughly  suppress  the  spirit  which  lives  in  national 
lyrics,  and  sounds  in  the  favorite  melodies  sung  by  high  and  low. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  singing — heart-singing  and  art- 
singing.2  That  which  touches  the  souls  and  sympathies  of 
other  communities  may  have  no  effect  here — unless  it  appeals 
to  the  throbbings  of  the  great  heart  of  humanity  itself — pictures 
love,  hope,  or  mirth  in  their  comprehensive  aspect.  But  nearly 
every  nation  has  its  peculiarities  and  its  idioms,  which  make 
its  best  intellectual  efforts  dearest  to  itself  alone,  so  that  hardly 
any  thing  which  comes  to  us  in  the  music  and  songs  of  the  Old 
World,  is  strictly  good  and  fitting  to  our  own  nation. 

iFrom  the  Broadway  Journal,  Vol.  II,  pp.  318-319,  November  29,  1845.  This  essay 
is  interesting  in  revealing  an  early  form  taken  by  Whitman's  enthusiasm  for  American 
democracy,  and  also  in  preserving  the  only  record,  other  than  Whitman's  own  reminis- 
cences, of  what  Edgar  Allan  Poe  thought  of  the  work  of  the  young  writer.  This  brief 
record  appears  in  the  following  footnote  to  the  original  article: 

"The  author  desires  us  to  say,  for  him,  that  he  pretends  to  no  scientific  knowledge  of 
music.  He  merely  claims  to  appreciate  so  much  of  it  (a  sadly  disdained  department, 
just  now)  as  affects,  in  the  language  of  the  deacons,  'the  natural  heart  of  man.'  It  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  we  agree  with  our  correspondent  throughout.  Ed.  B.  J. 
[Edgar  Allan  Poe]." 

Whitman  reprinted  this  essay,  somewhat  altered,  under  the  caption  "  Music  that  it 
Music,"  as  an  editorial  in  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  December  4, 1 846.  (See  "  The  Gath- 
ering of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  346-349.) 

iC/.post,!,  p.  257. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  105 

With  all  honor  and  glory  to  the  land  of  the  olive  and  the 
vine,  fair-skied  Italy — with  no  turning  up  of  noses  at  Germany, 
France  or  England — we  humbly  demand  whether  we  have  not 
run  after  their  beauties  long  enough. 

"At  last  we  have  found  it!"  exclaimed  we,  some  nights  since, 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  performances  by  the  Cheney  Family,1 
in  Niblo's  saloon.2  At  last  we  have  found,  and  heard,  and  seen 
something  original  and  beautiful  in  the  way  of  American  musi- 
cal execution.  Never  having  been  present  at  any  of  the 
Hutchinsons'  Concerts3  (the  Cheneys,  we  are  told,  are  after 
the  same  token,)  the  elegant  simplicity  of  this  style  took  us  com- 
pletely by  surprise,  and  our  gratification  was  inexpressible. 
This,  said  we  in  our  heart,  is  the  true  method  which  must  become 
popular  in  the  United  States — which  must  supplant  the  stale, 
second-hand,  foreign  method,  with  its  flourishes,  its  ridiculous 
sentimentality,  its  anti-republican  spirit,  and  its  sycophantic  in- 
fluence, tainting  the  young  taste  of  the  republic. 

The  Cheney  young  men  are  such  brown-faced,  stout-should- 
ered fellows  as  you  will  see  in  almost  any  American  church,  in  a 
country  village,  of  a  Sunday.  The  girl  is  strangely  simple, 
even  awkward,  in  her  ways.  Or  it  may  possibly  be  that  she 
disdains  the  usual  clap-trap  of  smiles,  hand-kissing,  and  dancing- 
school  bends.  To  our  taste,  there  is  something  refreshing  about 
all  this.  We  are  absolutely  sick  to  nausea  of  the  patent- 
leather,  curled-hair,  "japonicadom"  style.  The  Cheneys  are 
as  much  ahead  of  it  as  real  teeth  are  ahead  of  artificial  ones — 
even  those  which  Dodge,  (nature-rival,  as  he  is,)  sent  to  the  late 
Fair.  We  beg  these  young  Yankees  to  keep  their  manners 
plain  alway.  The  sight  of  them,  as  they  are,  puts  one  in  mind 
of  health  and  fresh  air  in  the  country,  at  sunrise — the  dewy, 

JThe  Cheneys  composed  a  quartette,  three  brothers  and  a  sister,  children  of  a  dis- 
tinguished New  Hampshire  preacher.  They  first  appeared  in  New  York  City  in  October, 
1845.  Though  tempted  by  flattering  offers,  Simeon  Pease  Cheney  refused  to  give  up 
his  teaching  of  country  singing  classes  (a  work  shared  by  his  two  brothers).  Later  he 
compiled  "The  American  Singing-Book,"  and  collected  materials  for  "Wood-Notes 
Wild,"  posthumously  published,  in  which  he  records  bird  notes. 

2Cf.  "Franklin  Evans," post,  II,  pp.  130, 145,  211. 

3Later  Whitman  heard  the  Hutchinsons,  both  in  New  York  and  in  Brooklyn,  and  ad- 
mired their  singing  very  much.     Cf.  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  517. 

Though  there  were  thirteen  brothers  and  sisters  in  this  once  famous  musical  family, 
Whitman  probably  refers  to  the  quartette  who  first  took  New  York  City  by  storm  in 
1843.  They  spent  their  summers  on  a  New  England  farm,  their  falls  and  winters  singing 
in  New  England  and  in  New  York.  Later  (1845)  tney  went  to  England,  Scotland  and 
Ireland.     (See  "National  Encyclopedia  of  American  Biography.") 


106  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

earthy  fragrance  that  comes  up  then  in  the  moisture,  and 
touches  the  nostrils  more  gratefully  than  all  the  perfumes  of 
the  most  ingenious  chemist. 

These  hints  we  throw  out  rather  as  suggestive  of  a  train  of 
thought  to  other  and  more  deliberate  thinkers  than  we — and 
not  as  the  criticisms  of  a  musical  connoisseur.  If  they  have 
pith  in  them,  we  have  not  much  doubt  others  will  carry  them 
out.  If  not,  we  at  least  know  they  are  written  in  that  true 
wish  for  benefitting  the  subject  spoken  of,  which  should  char- 
acterize all  essays. 


SLAVERS  AND  THE  SLAVE  TRADE1 

Public  attention  within  the  last  few  days  has  been  naturally 
turned  to  the  slave  trade — that  most  abominable  of  all  man's 
schemes  for  making  money,  without  regard  to  the  character  of 
the  means  used  for  the  purpose.  Four  vessels  have,  in  about 
as  many  days,  been  brought  to  the  American  territory,  for  being 
engaged  in  this  monstrous  business!  It  is  a  disgrace  and  a  blot 
on  the  character  of  our  republic,  and  on  our  boasted  humanity! 

Though  we  hear  less  now-a-days  of  this  trade — of  the  atro- 
cious slave  hunt — of  the  crowding  of  a  mass  of  compact  human 
flesh  into  little  more  than  its  equal  of  space — we  are  not  to 
suppose  that  such  horrors  have  ceased  to  exist.  The  great  na- 
tions of  the  earth — our  own  first  of  all — have  passed  stringent 
laws  against  the  slave  traffic.  But  Brazil  openly  encourages 
it  still.  And  many  citizens  of  Europe  and  America  pursue  it  not 
withstanding  its  illegality.  Still  the  negro  is  torn  from  his  sim- 
ple hut — from  his  children,  his  brethren,  his  parents,  and  friends 
— to  be  carried  far  away  and  made  the  bondsman  of  a  stranger. 
Still  the  black-hearted  traitors  who  ply  this  work,  go  forth 
with  their  armed  bands  and  swoop  down  on  the  defenseless  vil- 
lages, and  bring  their  loads  of  human  trophy,  chained  and 
gagged,  and  sell  them  as  so  much  merchandise ! 

1  From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  March  1 8, 1 846. 

Cf.  post,  I,  pp.  160-162,  171-174,  II,  pp.  8-10. 

Whitman's  editorship  of  the  Eagle  began  shortly  after  the  death  of  his  predecessor, 
William  B.  Marsh,  which  occurred  on  February  26,  1846;  his  connection  with  the  Eagle 
was  terminated  by  a  "row  with  the  boss  and  the  party"  in  the  latter  part  of  January, 
1848  (on  or  just  before  January  18,  as  shown  by  references  in  the  contemporary  press  of 
the  city  and  in  the  style  of  the  Eagle's  pages  themselves).  See  post,  II,  p.  88.  Except 
for  a  few  special  contributions,  Whitman  did  all  the  editorial  writing  for  the  Eagle. 
(See  post,  I,  p.  116.)  The  authorship  of  the  selections  here  reprinted  is  therefore  easily 
determined. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  107 

The  slave-ship !  How  few  of  our  readers  know  the  beginning 
of  the  horrors  involved  in  that  term !  Imagine  a  vessel  of  the 
fourth  or  fifth  class,  built  more  for  speed  than  space,  and  there- 
fore with  narrow  accommodations  even  for  a  few  passengers;  a 
space  between  decks  divided  into  two  compartments,  three  feet 
three  inches  from  floor  to  ceiling — one  of  these  compartments, 
sixteen  feet  by  eighteen,  the  other  forty  by  twenty-one — the 
first  holding  two  hundred  and  twenty-six  children  and  youths  of 
both  sexes — the  second,  three  hundred  and  thirty-six  men  and 
women — and  all  this  in  a  latitude  where  the  thermometer  is  at 
eighty  degrees  in  the  shade!  Are  you  sick  of  the  description? 
O,  this  is  not  all,  by  a  good  sight.  Imagine  neither  food  nor 
water  given  these  hapless  prisoners — except  a  little  of  the  latter, 
at  long  intervals,  which  they  spill  in  their  mad  eagerness  to  get 
it;  many  of  the  women  advanced  in  pregnancy — the  motion  of 
the  seas  sickening  those  who  have  never  before  felt  it — dozens 
of  the  poor  wretches  dying,  and  others  already  dead  (and  they 
are  most  to  be  envied!) — the  very  air  so  thick  that  the  lungs 
cannot  perform  their  office — and  all  this  for  filthy  lucre !  Pah ! 
we  are  almost  a  misanthrope  to  our  kind  when  we  think  they 
will  do  such  things! 

Of  the  900  negroes,  (there  were  doubtless  more,)  originally  on 
board  the  Pons  not  six  hundred  and  fifty  remained  when  she 
arrived  back,  and  landed  her  inmates  at  Monrovia!  It  is 
enough  to  make  the  heart  pause  its  pulsations  to  read  the  scene 
presented  at  the  liberation  of  these  sons  of  misery. — Most  of 
them  were  boys,  of  from  twelve  to  twenty  years.  What  woe 
must  have  spread  through  many  a  negro  mother's  heart,  from 
this  wicked  business! 

It  is  not  ours  to  find  an  excuse  for  slaving,  in  the  benighted 
condition  of  the  African.  Has  not  God  seen  fit  to  make  him, 
and  leave  him  so?  Nor  is  it  any  less  our  fault  because  the 
chiefs  of  that  barbarous  land  fight  with  each  other,  and  take 
slave-prisoners.  The  whites  encourage  them,  and  afford  them 
a  market.  Were  that  market  destroyed,  there  would  soon  be 
no  supply. 

We  would  hardly  so  insult  our  countrymen  as  to  suppose 
that  any  among  them  yet  countenance  a  system  only  a  little 
portion  of  whose  horrors  we  have  been  describing — did  not 
facts  prove  the  contrary.  The  "middle  passage"  is  yet  going 
on  with  all  its  deadly  crime  and  cruelty.  The  slave-trade  yet 
exists.     Why?     The  laws  are  sharp  enough — too  sharp.     But 


io8     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

who  ever  hears  of  their  being  put  in  force,  further  than  to  con- 
fiscate the  vessel,  and  perhaps  imprison  the  crews  a  few  days? 
But  the  laws  should  pry  out  every  man  who  helps  the  slave- 
trade — not  merely  the  sailor  on  the  sea,  but  the  cowardly  rich 
villain  and  speculator  on  the  land — and  punish  him.  It  cannot 
be  effectually  stopped  until  that  is  done — and  Brazil  forced  by 
the  black  muzzles  of  American  and  European  men-of-war's  can- 
non, to  stop  her  part  of  the  business  too! 


HURRAH  FOR  HANGING!1 

We  are  going  to  say  some  bold  truths!  We  are  going  to 
dash  at  once  into  the  impassioned  errors  of  probably  four  out 
of  every  five  who  will  read  this  article. 

— If  ever  the  present  system  of  criminal  law,  and  of  the  treat- 
ment of  criminals,  offered  an  instance  of  one  of  its  fruits,  that 
instance  is  the  precocious  monster  Freeman — the  butcher  of  five 
human  beings  last  week  in  Cayuga  co.,  in  this  state — as  we  have 
already  published  the  dark  and  dreadful  narrative.  Reader! 
you  may  meet  such  a  remark  as  the  foregoing  with  a  scowl,  or 
an  impatient  jibe — but  if  we  are  not,  in  our  own  mind,  clear  in 
its  truth,  may  we  never  get  sight  of  Heaven  hereafter! 

The  present  excited  state  of  public  feeling  will,  of  course, 
lead  the  representatives  of  society  in  due  time  to  paddle  in  his 
blood,  as  he  in  that  of  his  victim's.  The  murder  will  surely  be 
revenged.  We  can  therefore  do  no  harm  by  seizing  the  occasion 
to  draw  as  profitable  a  lesson  as  we  may  from  the  whole  case. 
It  is  no  inviting  task;  but  few  tasks  are  inviting. 

— Let  us  examine  somewhat  of  the  murderer's  life: 

So  far  as  anything  can  be  gathered  from  the  facts  brought  to 
light,  Freeman  seems  to  be  an  uneducated,  friendless  outcast. 
He  has  never  had  the  benefit  of  any  kind  of  teaching  or  counsel; 
and  never  lived  within  any  fixed  moral  or  religious  influences. 
His  whole  character  is  of  the  most  blindly  brutal  cast — a  mere 
human  animal.  At  the  early  age  of  nineteen,  he  is  accused  of 
a  crime  of  which  he  says  he  is  not  guilty,  and,  through  the  in- 
fluence of  Mr.  Van  Ness,  is  sent  to  the  State  Prison  for  five  years. 
Now  consider  how  few  of  better  fortune,  even  of  virtuous  and 
religious  character,  would  not  deeply  feel  the  wrong  and  injus- 

1  From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  March  23, 1 846. 
Cf.  infra,  pp.  97-103;  post,  II,  pp.  15-16. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  109 

tice  of  such  proceedings,  and  be  roused  to  the  fiercest  hate  against 
those  who  had  been  instrumental  in  bringing  them  to  it.  How 
much  more  terrible  the  effect  then  on  this  neglected,  ignorant 
and  depraved  negro,  in  whom  the  brute  had  been  allowed  to  rule 
the  man. 

For  five  long  and  weary  years  he  is  shut  up  in  prison,  and 
left  to  brood  over  his  wrongs.  He  can  make  no  distinction  be- 
tween the  inevitable  mistakes  of  the  law  and  human  testimony, 
and  what  he  imagines  is  a  determination  to  crush  him.  He 
thinks  only  of  his  laborious  imprisonment  day  after  day,  month 
after  month,  till  it  has  taken  possession  of  all  his  thoughts;  and 
the  purpose  of  revenge,  which  to  him  is  justice,  has  become  to 
him  the  very  breath  of  life.  If  society  had  dealt  tenderly  with 
him  during  this  awful  period;  if  some  ministering  angel1  had 
come  and  heard  his  sorrowful  story,  and  sought  to  bring  him 
under  kindly  influences,  and  taught  him  the  beautiful  Christian 
law,  "Love  your  enemies;  bless  those  who  curse  you;"  if  this 
had  been  done,  he  might  have  been  saved,  and  his  victims  been 
still  in  the  midst  of  the  living. 

But  this  was  not  done.  The  neglected  wretch  was  left  to  his 
fate,  left  to  be  haunted  by  his  foul  passions,  and  at  last  to 
be  turned  out  to  do  their  own  bidding  without  a  word  of  warn- 
ing, or  one  friend  to  guide  or  bless.  Is  it  a  matter  of  wonder, 
then,  that  the  result  is  what  we  have  seen?  Is  it  strange  that 
the  wild  beast  prevailed? 

That  the  wretch  had  worked  himself  into  a  terribly  calm  and 
blind  ferocity  appears  from  the  whole  account  of  the  murder. 
The  idea  of  revenge  seems  to  have  swallowed  up  all  things  else. 
He  seems  to  have  become  perfectly  bewildered  and  blinded  by 
his  purpose  of  blood.  He  not  only  strikes  the  object  of  his  spite, 
the  man  who  did  him  the  supposed  wrong,  but  indiscriminately, 
as  though  running  the  bloody  muck.  With  a  frightful  coolness, 
he  plunges  his  knife  into  all  whom  he  meets,  sacrificing  guilty 
and  innocent  alike.  He  destroys  those  who  never  did  him  harm, 
whom  he  never  saw,  and  against  whom  he  could  have  had  no 
possible  hatred  or  ill-feeling!  This  very  horror  of  the  butchery 
shows  how  thoroughly  diseased  and  confused  the  whole  moral 
being  of  the  murderer  had  become. 

— What  remains  then  ?  Hang  him.  In  the  work  of  death,  let 
the  law  keep  up  with  the  murderer,  and  see  who  will  get  the 
victory  at  last.     Homicides  are  increasing  in  every  part  of  the 

*Cf.  infra,  pp.  8.3-86. 


no     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

land.  We  are  amazed  that  the  gallows  don't  stop  'em.  Let  its 
advocates  not  be  backward,  however.  Let  them  stick  it  out 
staunchly  and  kill  and  slay  the  faster — and,  even  if  the  more 
they  hang  the  more  they  prepare  to  hang,  let  them  keep  it  up 
still— for  is  not  such  the  command  of  God?1 


"MOTLEY'S  YOUR  ONLY  WEAR!"2 

A  Chapter  for  the  First  of  April. 

Aha!  this  is  all  Fool's  day,  is  it?  What  right  or  reason  has 
any  body  to  select  one  day  from  the  whole  year,  and  give  it 
such  a  name?  Just  as  if  our  world  was  weak  and  wicked  a 
three  hundred  and  sixty-fifth  fraction  of  its  existence  only. 
Why,  sirs,  the  rule  should  run  the  other  way  altogether.  If 
there  were  a  day  of  universal  common  sense  all  over  the  earth, 
that  would  indeed  be  something  wonderful.  The  great  axis 
would  cease  in  its  revolutions  in  dismay  and  confusion,  at  any- 
thing of  that  kind ! 

But  we  must  not  run  off  in  this  manner. 

We  salute  you,  Fools!  The  time  is  yours;  politeness  demands 
that  you  should  have  the  compliments  of  the  season;  and  we  are 
going  to  give  up  to  your  services  a  part  of  one  of  our  columns. 
And  as  your  name  is  legion,  it  were  well  to  pick  out  the  few 
among  you  who,  standing  prominently  forward,  are  entitled  to 
the  first  benefit  of  our  courtesy. 

The  sour  tempered  grumbler  at  humanity,  and  at  this  beau- 
tiful earth  which  the  good  God  has  made  so  well — the  man 
whose  actions  sing  "love  not,"  forever,  though  his  mouth  sings 
not  at  all — he  is  one  to  whom  this  day  is  most  particularly 
dedicated.  He  will  not  smile,  not  he;  but  he  will  snarl  and 
snap — the  tart  vinegar  fellow!  He  will  not  bless  the  bright 
sunshine,  and  the  fragrant  flowers,  and  the  innocence  of  young 
children,  and  the  soothing  wind  that  brings  health  and  vigor. 
No,  no.  He  plods  discontentedly  along.  He  sees  but  the  bad 
that  is  in  his  fellow  creatures;  he  has  sharp  eyes  for  every  stum- 
bling block,  and  quick  ears  for  every  discord,  (a  harmony  to  the 
hearing  largely  tuned,)3  in  the  great  anthem  of  life.     Weak; 

1Qf.  infra,  p.  103. 

2 From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  April  I,  1846. 

3This  would  seem  to  argue  that  Whitman's  theory  of  evil  had  already  been  formulated. 
Cf.  post,  I,  p.  231. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  m 


miserable  one!  Wilt  thou  walk  through  the  garden,  and  per- 
versely prick  thy  hand  with  the  thorns,  and  put  thy  nose  only  to 
the  scentless  blossom,  while  all  around  thee  is  so  much  goodly 
roses,  and  ever  fresh  verdure,  and  sweets  budding  out  per- 
petually? Wilt  thou  cast  thy  glance  morosely  on  the  ground, 
and  never  toward  that  most  excellent  canopy,  the  cloud-draped 
and  star-studded  sky  above  thee  ? 

Ah,  open  thyself  to  a  better  and  more  genial  philosophy, 
Fool.  There  are  griefs  and  clouds  and  disappointments,  in 
the  lot  of  man;  but  there  are  comforts  and  enjoyments  too.1 
And  we  must  glide  aside  by  the  former  smoothly,  and  hold  fast 
to  the  latter,  and  foster  them,  that  like  guests  treated  hospi- 
tably, they  may  come  again,  and  haply  take  up  their  abode  with 
us.  It  is  habit,  after  all,  that  makes  the  largest  part  of  the  dis- 
contents of  life.  Fight  against  that  wicked  habit,  Fool,  that 
thou  may'st  be  a  happier  man,  and  not  be  thought  of  si- 
multaneously with  the  First  of  April. 

— And  you,  sir,  with  the  muck-rake — you  feverish  toiler  and 
burro wer  for  superfluous  wealth2 — you  must  not  be  forgotten, 
either.  Cease  your  weary  application,  an  hour  or  two — for 
your  class  should  hold  high  revel,  to-day.  No  ?  you  have  houses 
to  build,  and  accounts  to  compute,  and  profits  to  reap?  But, 
man,  you  already  own  houses  enough;  and  the  profits  of  your 
past  labor  warrant  the  ample  competence  of  the  future.  Still, 
argue  you,  business  engages  all  your  time — must  occupy  it? 
Oh,  Fool!  The  little  birds,  and  the  sheep  in  the  field,  possess 
more  reason  than  thou;  for  when  once  their  natural  wants  are 
satisfied,  they  repose  themselves  and  toil  no  more.3  The  lambs 
gambol.  The  birds  sing,  in  joy  and  gratitude,  as  it  were,  to  the 
good  God;  and  you  will  do  nothing  but  plod,  and  plod.  Go  to, 
Fool!  It  is  not  well  to  labor  in  servile  offices,  while  the  great 
banquet  is  spread  in  many  princely  halls,  and  all  who  would 
partake  are  welcome. 

— Gently  turn  we  to  another  band  of  the  erring  mortal.  Gently: 
For  guilt,  though  often  tough,  to  an  iron  hardness,  cannot  be 
bettered  by  other  hardness — by  stern  vindictive  punishment,4 
and  angry  reproof.     Apart  and  by  themselves — in  silence  and 

1  cf-  infra,  pp.  78-83-        '  Of.  infra,  pp.  37-39;  post,  I,  pp.  123-125,  245;  II,  pp.  63, 67. 

3  Such  a  paraphrase  of  the  Bible  as  this  suggests  a  probable  source  of  Whitman's 
inspiration  in  the  moral  didacticism  with  which  the  Eagle  editorials  are  replete;  and  it  also 
helps  to  account  for  his  prophetic  role's  assuming  so  decidedly  religious  a  form.  See  post, 
II,  pp.  91-92. 

4Cf.  infra,  pp.  97-103,  108-110. 


ii2  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

tears — with  repentance,  and  vows  of  reformation,  should  the 
doers  of  crime  keep  this  day.  No  taunt  or  insult  of  their  more 
fortunate  brethren  should  come  to  deepen  their  oppressive  sad- 
ness. But  the  words  of  encouragement  and  sympathy  should 
come — the  friendly  glance  such  as  the  Pardoner  himself  dis- 
dained not  to  throw  on  sin  and  sinners — the  thought  of  the  frail- 
ness of  mortality,  and  its  self-retrieving  strength,  also,  these,  like 
good  spirits,  should  surround  the  sons  and  daughters  of  vice 
and  cheer  them  to  the  working  out  of  a  better  heart. 
— Nor  must  we  forget  the  political  fool — the  unbeliever  in  hu- 
man goodness  and  progress,  and  worth:  nor  the  little  manceuvrer 
and  plotter  who  is  mighty  in  bar-rooms,  and  blusters  loudly  with 
the  sacred  names  of  towering  ideas — which  are  to  him  but  the 
base  counters  to  pass  away  in  exchange  for  food  for  his  own  silly 
and  selfish  ambition.  He  is  truly  a  foolish  Fool,  and  ofttimes 
inoculates  others  with  the  contagion. 

— And  as  we  must  stop  in  the  category  somewhere — long  as  the 
list  could  be  made — we  wind  up  with  that  multitude,  (if  it  be  not 
a  bull  to  say  so,)  of  single  fools,  the  bachelors  and  maids  who  are 
old  enough  to  be  married — but  who,  from  appearances,  will 
probably  "die  and  give  no  sign."1  If  seizing  the  means  of  the 
truest  happiness — a  home,  domestic  comfort,  children,  and  the 
best  blessings — be  wisdom,  then  is  the  unmarried  state  a  great 
folly.  There  be  some,  doubtless,  who  may  not  be  blamed — 
whom  peculiar  circumstances  keep  in  the  bands  of  the  solitary; 
but  the  most  of  both  sexes  can  find  partners  meet  for  them,  if 
they  will.2    Turn  Fools,  and  get  discretion.     Buy  candles  and 

1  Cf.     "  He  dies,  and  makes  no  sign  "  ("  King  Henry  VI,"  Pt.  i,  III,  3, 29). 

JSuch  a  passage  is  perplexing  rather  than  illuminating;  for,  though  it  clearly  shows  that, 
previous  to  Whitman's  first  Southern  journey,  he  strongly  approved  of  marriage  as  an 
institution  and  the  married  state  as  an  avenue  to  happiness,  we  cannot  be  sure  that  the 
writer  is  Whitman  the  man  instead  of  Whitman  the  philosophizing  editor,  nor  can  we  be 
sure  that,  if  this  be  a  personal  revelation,  it  was  not  qualified  by  the  prophetic  inspira- 
tion which  descended  upon  the  poet  about  1847.  Moreover,  does  he  excuse  himself 
along  with  the  individuals  whom  "peculiar  circumstances  keep  in  the  bands  of  the 
solitary"?  If  so,  what  were  the  peculiar  circumstances  alluded  to — the  mere  inability 
to  find  a  mate  or  something  in  his  emotional  nature  which  made  it  unlikely  that  he  would 
ever  find  a  mate  ?  (See  infra,  pp.  lxix-1, 92.)  That  the  latter  may  have  been  the  case  seems 
a  little  more  probable  when  the  final  appeal  to  the  bachelors  is  made,  for  this  appeal 
is  based,  not  on  romantic  or  hedonistic  grounds,  but  on  the  duty  to  "do  the  state  some 
service,"  an  appeal  which  is  made  very  prominent  in  "Children  of  Adam."  An  undated 
scrap  of  Whitman  manuscript,  owned  by  Mr.  Alfred  Goldsmith,  records  the  following 
melancholy  query:  "Why  is  it  that  a  sense  comes  always  crushing  on  me,  as  of  one  hap- 
piness I  have  missed  in  life?  and  one  friend  and  companion  I  have  never  made?"  How- 
ever, the  passage  in  the  text  above  is  too  ambiguous  to  be  very  valuable  as  evidence 
either  way,  when  taken  by  itself.     (See  infra,  p.  48,  note  I.) 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  113 

double  beds;  make  yourself  a  reality  in  life — and  do  the  state 
some  service. 

We  cease;  even  though  yet  but  on  the  first  leaf  of  the  ponder- 
ous catalogue.  And  if  in  the  wild  spirit  of  the  day,  we  have  ex- 
pressed our  fancies  in  defiance  of  the  sober  methods  of  editors, 
let  us  find  our  license  amid  the  wide  privileges  of  the  First  of 
April — or,  if  it  please  you  better,  sweet  madam,  or  good  sir,  jot 
us  down  as  one  who  himself,  by  good  right,  deserves  a  patch  o' 
the  motley. 


SOMETHING    ABOUT    THE    CHILDREN    OF    EARLY 

SPRING " 

The  flowers!  the  sweet  and  beautiful  flowers,  are  beginning 
now  to  bud  forth  and  bloom !  With  the  first  mildening  of  the 
air  came  the  proud  camelia,  in  all  its  simple  splendor  of  pure 
red,  or  unmottled  white.  We  saw  it  weeks  ago  on  the  stands, 
and  in  the  parlor  windows,  as  we  passed  along,  with  its  glossy 
clean  leaves,  and  its  peculiar  aristocratic  bend,  as  if  conscious 
that  it  should  be  the  queen  of  all  the  tribe  of  grace.  The  waxe 
like  [wax-like]  precision  of  its  delicate  blossom-leaves,  and  the 
early  greeting  it  gives  us,  of  all  flowers  of  the  year,  make  it  one 
of  our  chosen  favorites. 

And  the  oriental-looking  cactus  is  out  too,  with  its  innumer- 
able points,  like  the  turrets  of  sojne  old  gothic  architecture. 
And  the  azalia,  likewise,  one  of  the  sisters  of  the  April  circle. 
But  the  perennial  blooming  rose,  the  beautiful  one!  ah,  it 
comes  like  a  loved  child's  smiling  face,  that  greets  us  daily 
and  grows  into  our  hearts  deeper  and  deeper  through  the  pass- 
ing time.  In  summer  and  winter  blooms  the  good  rose — in  the 
severity  of  the  latter  season,  requiring,  of  course,  to  be  sheltered 
with  a  kindly  hand  from  the  cold  kiss  of  the  snows  and  frosts. 
Blessings  on  the  fragrant  Daughter  of  the  Morning  Clouds! 
It  is  the  choice  and  cherished  blossom  of  our  variable  clime. 
In  its  plenty  and  luxuriance,  it  spreads  by  the  sides  of  the  fields 
in  the  country,  and  repays  the  slightest  care  of  the  gardener. 
Without  the  good  rose,  we  were  to  lose  much  of  the  loveliness 
that  covers  the  surface  of  our  northern  earth. 

And  should  we  forget  the  humble,  and  modest, — the  sweet 
downward-hidden  violet?    Timid  as  a  soft-eyed  babe,  it  nestles 

»From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  April  o,  1846, 


ii4  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

its  face  in  the  breast  of  Earth,  its  mother!  Flower  of  the 
faint  sweet  perfume,  and  the  purple  blush!  we  pluck  thee 
never — but  love  to  bend  down  and  part  carefully  away  the 
grass  leaves,  and  inhale  thy  fragrance — but  ever  place  back 
around  thee  thy  bolder  friend,  and  leave  thee  then  unharmed. 
Ah,  there,  is  to  us  a  deep  sacred  charm  in  humility!  And  is  it 
not  so  to  all? — How  wicked  the  heart  that  can,  in  the  black 
corruption  of  its  selfishness,  outrage  that  charm,  and  bruise  the 
innocent  weakness  of  a  modest  fragile  one! 

The  heath-blossom  and  the  blue-bell,  too,  exhibit  their  col- 
ored tints  to  the  sun,  and  draw  back  again  life  and  vigor  from 
his  smiles.  And  the  geranium,  that  sweet  among  the  sweetest, 
opens  its  little  red  buds,  and  fills  the  air  with  the  refreshing 
scent  of  its  lemon-smelling  leaves.  Nor  are  there  wanting  other 
manifestations  of  the  bounty  of  the  good  Father  above;  but  on 
these  we  forbear  now  to  expatiate. 

If  you  have  none  of  these  silent  orators  of  devotion  about 

you,  gentle  reader,  go  forthwith  and  procure  them,  and  place 
them  where  you  will  see  them  every  day.  Their  mute  mouths 
are  a  perpetual  hymn  to  the  holy  God — and  it  were  well  for  you 
to  listen  to  them.  Miss  Bremer1  tells  us  a  beautiful  and  sublime 
thought  which  she  learned  from  flowers. — In  the  resemblance, 
as  they  are  widely  and  incessantly  drawing  life,  beauty,  and 
virtue  from  the  sun,  while  yet  that  luminary  lessens  not  in  those 
qualities  which  it  is  constantly  bestowing  on  other  things — so  the 
Almighty,  the  fountain  of  goodness,  truth  and  all  vitality,  though 
throwing  off  that  vitality  and  truth  forever,  yet  stays  eternally 
the  same,  and  loses  nought. 
Ah,  we  may  learn  many  a  fine  moral  from  the  flowers! 


OURSELVES  AND  THE  EAGLE2 

We  have  arrayed  ourselves  in  new  apparel,  and  present  us 
to  the  public  with  a  "clean  face,"  to-day — as  per  the  current 
paragraph,  and  all  after  it!  We  might  say  a  great  deal,  here- 
with, about  what  we  are  going  to  do,  etc.;  but  we  think  it  about 
as  well  to  "let  our  acts  speak  for  us."  We  shall  do  as  well  as 
we  can;  and  our  journal  will  be  "devoted"  to — what  is  put  into 
it. 

i]Cf.post,  I,  p.  ia8. 

2 From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  1, 1846. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  115 

The  democratic  party  of  Brooklyn  should  {and  do)  hand- 
somely support  a  handsome  daily  paper. — For  our  part,  too,  we 
mean  no  mere  lip-thanks  when  we  say  that  we  are  truly  con- 
scious of  the  warm  kindness  with  which  they  have  always  treated 
this  establishment.  To  those  in  Brooklyn  who,  not  taking  a 
daily  local  print,  feel  inclined  to  subscribe  to  one,  we  respect- 
fully suggest  that  they  "  try  us,"  now.  If  at  the  end  of  a  fort- 
night, or  month,  they  don't  think  they  get  the  worth  of  their 
money,  we  will  cheerfully  mark  them  off  again.  We  really  feel 
a  desire  to  talk  on  many  subjects,  to  all  the  people  of  Brooklyn; 
and  it  ain't  their  ninepences  we  want  so  much  either.  There 
is  a  curious  kind  of  sympathy  (haven't  you  ever  thought  of  it 
before?)  that  arises  in  the  mind  of  a  newspaper  conductor  with 
the  public  he  serves.  He  gets  to  love  them.  Daily  communion 
creates  a  sort  of  brotherhood  and  sisterhood  between  the  two 
parties.  As  for  us,  we  like  this.  We  like  it  better  than  the 
more  "dignified"  part  of  editorial  labors — the  grave  political 
disquisition,  the  contests  of  faction,  and  so  on.  And  we  want 
as  many  readers  of  the  Brooklyn  Eagle — even  unto  the  half  of 
Long  Island — as  possible,  that  we  may  increase  the  number  of 
such  friends.  For  are  not  those  who  daily  listen  to  us,  friends? 
— Perhaps  no  office  requires  a  greater  union  of  rare  qualities  than 
that  of  a  true  editor.  No  wonder,  then,  that  so  few  come  under 
that  flattering  title !  No  wonder  that  we  are  all  derelict,  in  some 
particular!  In  general  information,  an  editor  should  be  com- 
plete, particularly  with  that  relating  to  his  own  country.  He 
should  have  a  fluent  style:  elaborate  finish  we  do  not  think 
requisite  in  daily  writing.  His  articles  had  far  better  be  earnest 
and  terse  than  polished;  they  should  ever  smack  of  being  uttered 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  like  political  oratory. — 1     In  temper, 

1This  statement  of  Whitman's  editorial  creed,  made  shortly  before  he  did  the  first 
known  writing  on  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  was  in  part,  perhaps  unconsciously,  transferred 
to  his  poetic  work.  But  in  the  matter  of  polish,  he  seems  to  have  come  to  see  the  weak- 
ness of  his  position,  in  regard  to  both  editorial  writing  and  poetic  composition.  In  an 
editorial  in  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Times  (January  25,  1858)  under  the  heading  "Wanted, 
A  Critic,"  he  writes: 

"We  never  glance  over  our  own  columns  or  those  of  our  contemporaries  without 
wishing  that  some  monarch  of  journalism  would  arise,  and  hold  all  the  small  fry  of  the 
profession  to  a  rigid  accountability  in  regard  to  the  style  and  grammar  of  their  manifold 
effusions.  .  .  .  How  much  of  the  turbid  bombast  and  buncombe  of  political  speak- 
ers might  be  choked  in  the  utterance,  if  the  newspapers  would  only  conform  themselves, 
and  compel  others  to  conform,  to  a  stern  and  rigid  rectitude  of  expression.     .     .     . 

"We  firmly  believe  that  a  loose  and  ungrammatical  style  leads  to  heterodoxy  of  senti- 
ment— that  the  writer  who  would  deliberately  infringe  the  rules  of  composition  would 
not  long  hesitate  attempting  to  make  the  worse  appear  the  better  reason. 

".     •     •     .    The  Evening  Post  i$  perhaps  the  model  journal  as  regards  its  rhetoric 


n6  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Job  himself  is  the  lowest  example  he  should  take.  And  even 
that  famed  ancient,  we  trow,  cannot  be  said  to  have  achieved 
the  climax  of  human  endurance — since  types  and  printing 
presses  were  not  in  vogue  at  his  era.  An  editor  needs,  withal, 
a  sharp  eye,  to  discriminate  the  good  from  the  immense  mass  of 
unreal  stuff  floating  on  all  sides  of  him — and  always  bearing 
the  counterfeit  presentment  of  the  real.  This  talent  is  so  rare 
that  many  newspapers  have  built  up  quite  a  reputation  on  the 
merit  of  their  selections1  alone.  Here,  in  this  country,  most 
editors  have  far  far  too  much  to  do}  to  make  good  work  of  what 
they  do.  Abroad,  it  is  different.  In  London  or  Paris,  the  pay- 
ment for  a  single  "leader"  is  frequently  more  than  the  month's 
salary  of  the  best  remunerated  American  editor.  Crowding 
upon  one  individual  the  duties  of  five  or  six,  is,  indeed,  the 
greatest  reason  of  all  why  we  have  in  America  so  very  few  daily 
prints  that  are  artistically  equal  to  the  European  ones.  Is  it 
not  astonishing,  then — not  that  the  press  of  the  United  States 
don't  do  better,  but  that  it  don't  do  worse? 

With  all  and  any  drawbacks,  however,  much  good  can  al- 
ways be  done,  with  such  [a]  potent  influence  as  a  well  circulated 
newspaper.  To  wield  that  influence,  is  a  great  responsibility. 
There  are  numerous  noble  reforms  that  have  yet  to  be  pressed 

but  it  circulates  only  among  the  classes  who  stand  least  in  need  of  an  instructor.  .  .  . 
The  slovenliness  of  journalistic  composition  reacts  with  tenfold  effect  upon  public  speak- 
ers. We  have  sat  in  the  Board  of  Education  and  listened  to  the  grossest  errors  of  utter- 
ance, such  as  'It  don't  matter' — 'I  was  a-going  to  propose' — 'I  motion  that,'  etc., 
until  our  fingers  have  tingled  with  the  desire  to  box  the  speakers'  ears,  and  set  them  at 
the  bottom  of  the  lowest  classes,  instead  of  placing  them  at  the  head  of  school  affairs." 

1This  refers  to  the  miscellany  of  copied  poetry  and  prose,  occasionally  including  a 
serial  story  such  as  Whitman's  own  "Fortunes  of  a  Country  Boy"  (see post,  II,  p.  103, 
note),  which  the  better  papers  of  the  day  usually  printed  on  the  first  of  their  four  pages. 

*There  is  no  doubt  that  the  duties  of  an  editor  were,  in  the  forties,  both  so  complex 
and  so  bothersome  as  to  excuse  occasional  carelessness  in  composition.  But  tradition 
is  positive  on  the  point  that  Whitman,  for  his  part,  was  so  alive  to  the  danger  of  having 
the  creative  part  of  him  destroyed  by  the  more  commonplace  duties  of  his  profession 
that  he  usually  left  the  office  for  a  stroll  of  two  or  three  hours,  or  a  swim  at  Carey's 
Baths,  in  the  middle  of  every  fine  day,  sometimes  taking  a  member  of  the  office  force 
with  him  for  company.  Nor  are  we  dependent  on  tradition  alone.  The  following 
brief  editorial  dealing  with  a  line  of  city  omnibuses  shows  where  Whitman  was  likely  to 
be  found  in  the  afternoons:  ".  .  .  After  our  editorial  morning  toils  are  over — 
weary  and  fagged  out  with  them — we  have  no  greater  pleasure  than  to  get  into  one 
of  these  handsome  easy  carriages  (imagining  it  is  our  private  establishment,  and  the 
other  passengers  our  guests) — and  drive  out  to  some  of  the  beautiful  avenues  beyond 
Fort  Greene  (are  we  to  have  that  Park?)  and  there  alight,  and  walk  about — stretching 
over  the  hills,  and  down  the  distant  lanes — till  after  sunset;  and  then  walk  home  again 
with  a  tremendous  appetite  for  supper,  and  limbs  that  invite  sleep.  We  always  find  the 
carriages  of  the  East  Brooklyn  line  'comfortable/  and  the  drivers  civil  and  obliging." 
(Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  August  25, 1 846.)  j 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  117 

upon  the  world.  People  are  to  be  schooled,  in  opposition  per- 
haps to  their  long  established  ways  of  thought. — In  politics,  too, 
the  field  of  improvement  is  wide  enough  yet;  the  harvest  is 
large,  and  waiting  to  be  reaped — and  each  paper,  however 
humble,  may  do  good  in  the  ranks.  Nor  is  it  a  mere  monoto- 
nous writer  after  old  fashions  that  can  achieve  the  good  we  speak 
of.  .  .  .  We  shall  have  more  to  say  on  this  theme,  at  a  very 
early  period. 


A  PLEASANT  MORNING1 

Like  what  we  have  had  to-day,  deserves  special  notice,  after 
the  late  abominable  "spell"  of  damp  and  darkness.  How  fair 
and  glorious  was  to-day's  rising  of  the  sun !  All  nature  seemed 
glad,  like  a  gleesome  youth.  The  cool,  clear  air,  with  the  fresh- 
ness that  always  hangs  in  it,  at  sun-rise,  were  especially  grateful. 
We  noticed  invalids  drawn  out;  and  doubtless  the  Battery  has 
heard  the  mirth  of  children  loudly  to-day. 

And  the  ladies!  it  has  seemed  to  us  in  our  peregrinations, 
that  they  look  more  beautiful  to-day  than  ever  before!  We 
had  occasion  to  go  through  a  part  of  Broadway,  in  the  great 
Babel  over  the  river,  about  11  o'clock.  Ah,  the  handsome 
faces  and  poetical  forms  we  were  mildened  by  there!  And 
how  hot  it  was  withal.  The  water-carts  should  be  on  the  alert, 
such  weather  as  this. 

On  the  side  opposite  our  office,  we  see  at  this  moment  bevies 
of  our  Brooklyn  belles  on  their  way  to  the  ferry.  They  have 
those  lithe  graceful  shapes  such  as  the  American  women  only 
have — the  delicately  cut  features,  and  the  intellectual  cast  of 
head.  Ah,  woman !  the  very  sight  of  you  is  a  mute  prayer  of 
peace.  Without  your  refining  presence  the  late  sulky  fit  of 
weather,  "wouldn't  be  a  beginning,"  to  the  darkness  that  would 
spread  over  the  earth. 


ANDREW  JACKSON2 

One  year  ago  passed  a  noble  spirit  to  heaven! — One  year  ago, 
to-day,  Andrew  Jackson,  yielded  up  his  life — and  yielded  it  up 

iFrom  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  3, 1846. 

2  From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  8,  1846.  Whitman's  worship  of  the  hero  of 
democracy  was  doubtless  imbibed  from  his  father,  a  staunch  Democrat,  who  named  one 
of  his  sons  for  Jackson  and  another  for  Jefferson. 


n8  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

calmly  and  gracefully,  and  (for  who  shall  say  otherwise?)  with 
the  consciousness  of  duties  well  performed.  "Heaven  gave 
him  length  of  days,  and  he  filled  them  with  deeds  of  glory." 
Noble!  yet  simple-souled  old  man!  We  never  saw  him  but 
once.  That  was  when  we  were  but  a  little  boy,  in  this  very 
city  of  Brooklyn.1  He  came  to  the  north,  on  a  tour,  while  he 
was  President.  One  sweet  fragrant  summer  morning,  when  the 
sun  shone  brightly,  he  rode  up  from  the  ferry  in  an  open  ba- 
rouche. His  weather-beaten  face  is  before  us  at  this  moment, 
as  though  the  scene  happened  but  yesterday — with  his  snow- 
white  hair  brushed  stiffly  up  from  his  forehead,  and  his  piercing 
eyes  quite  glancing  through  his  spectators — as  those  rapid  eyes 
swept  the  crowds  on  each  side  of  the  street. 

The  whole  city — the  ladies  first  of  all — poured  itself  forth 
to  welcome  the  Hero  and  Sage.  Every  house,  every  window, 
was  filled  with  women,  and  children,  and  men — though  most  of 
the  latter  were  in  the  open  streets.  The  President  had  a  big- 
brimmed  white  beaver  hat,  and  his  arm  must  have  ached  some, 
from  the  constant  and  courteous  responses  he  made  to  the  inces- 
sant salutations  which  greeted  him  every  where — the  waving  of 
handkerchiefs  from  the  females,  and  shouts  from  the  men. 

Massive,  yet  most  sweet  and  plain  character!  in  the  wrangle 
of  party  and  the  ambitious  strife  after  political  distinctions, 
which  mark  so  many  even  of  our  most  eminent  men,  how  grate- 
ful it  is  to  turn  to  your  unalloyed  patriotism !  Your  great  soul 
never  knew  a  thought  of  self,  in  questions  which  involved  your 
country!    Ah,  there  has  lived  among  us  but  one  purer! 


EAST  LONG  ISLAND2 

A  Flying  Pic-nic — Greenport,  &c. — God  bless  us  all! 
what  an  idea!  To  take  breakfast  as  usual  in  Brooklyn — ride  a 
hundred  miles — "spend  the  day" — and  then  return  over  the 
same  hundred  miles  to  sup  at  nine  o'clock,  where  we  started 
from — and  all  just  as  quietly  as  a  man  ties  his  neckcloth  in 
the  morning!  Such  a  feat,  (we  flatter  ourself,)  is  not  unworthy 
of  special  record,  even  in  this  era  of  heaven-telegraphs,  and 
democratic  "annexation." — Yes,  gentle  madam — or  sir,  with 

*In  the  summer  of  1833;  Whitman  was  fourteen  years  old. 
2From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  June  27, 1 846. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  119 

upturned  nose — it  is  true.  In  far  less  than  the  mean  time  when 
the  sun  shone  (or  ought  to  have  shone,)  yesterday,  we  achieved 
the  aforesaid  feat.  We  started  at  half-past  seven,  A.  m., — ■ 
went  to  Greenport — analyzed  that  pretty  town,  talked  with  the 
ladies,  roamed  hither  and  yon,  dined,  and  did  many  other  things 
needless  to  mention  here.  At  five  o'clock,  p.  m.  (after  spending 
twice  as  long  a  "day"  as  the  Constitutional  Convention  has  at 
any  time  worked,  yet,)  westward  came  we,  and  at  nine,  our  boot- 
soles  were  duly  whopping  the  pavement  of  Henry  street,  in  this 
most  pious  city  of  churches. 

Certes,  a  pleasanter  country  town  (and  a  stiff  place,  withal, 
that  knows  the  fashions,  and  can  tell  the  taste  of  modern  French 
cookery!)  than  Greenport,  it  were  a  cruel  task  to  give  even 
"tricksy  Ariel."1  Going  down  with  the  L.  I.  R.  R.,  you  are 
dumped  (the  said  R.  R.  going  no  farther,)  on  a  long  wharf, 
cluttered  with  rubbish  of  the  most  nondescript  kind.  After 
you  have  picked  yourself  up  from  the  bewilderment  of  a  jaunt 
whose  rapidity  has  left  you  somewhat  in  doubt  whether  you  are 
really  awake,  you  sweep  your  eyes  around,  and  lo!  a  few  rods 
to  the  south,  a  goodly  habitation,  of  potent  dimensions,  and 
flags  flying — a  most  christian  looking  house,  and  a  satisfactory 
assurance,  after  fifty  miles  of  "plains"  and  scrub  oak,  that  you 
are  not  among  heathen,  but  will  surely  get  you  a  good  civilized 
dinner.  As  a  further  enlightenment,  in  the  premises,  let  us 
transcribe  the  following  card: 

PECONIC  HOUSE, 

Greenport,    L.    I. 

At  the  termination  of  the  Rail  Road. 

(Good  Sea  Bathing  and  Fishing). 

D.  R.  Fleeman,  )  p 

Geo.  Fleeman,      J        " 


tors. 


To  this  house  (if  you  know  what's  what,)  you  will  forthwith 
transport  yourself.  It  is  a  jewel  of  a  hotel — and  the  dinner 
yesterday  is  "not  to  be  beat,"  we  vouch  for  it.  Mr.  Fleeman 
was  formerly  of  the  Pearl  street  House,  in  New  York;  he  has, 
at  the  Peconic,  the  fullest  and  finest  accommodations  that  may 
be  desired.  "Some"  gentlemen  or  families  can  either  or  both 
be  " at  home"  there — and  we  recommend  'em  to  try  it. 

The  village  of  Greenport  contains  about  sixteen  hundred  in- 
habitants.    It  lies  handsomely,  in  respect  to  situation;  and  we 

1,cMy  tricksy  spirit  [Arie!],"  "The  Tempest,"  V,  I,  lid. 


120     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

should  judge  would  be  unsurpassable  for  health.  Streets  are 
opened  in  every  direction.  Neat  new  houses  line  them,  and 
gardens,  with  many  pretty  flowers,  adorn  them.  There  are 
three  churches,  all  in  a  bunch  together, — Presbyterian,  Baptist, 
and  Methodist,  under  the  Rev.  Messrs.  Woodbridge,  Leech,  and 
Collins.  Some  eleven  or  twelve  whaleships  go  out  of  Green- 
port,  which  makes  something  of  an  item  of  business  there.  The 
persons  largest  engaged  in  whaling  are  Ireland,  Wells,  &  Car- 
penter. There  are  two  ship  yards — Post's  and  Bishop's.  A 
spirited  competition  is  kept  up  in  county  trading,  &c,  we  should 
judge  from  the  shops.  The  Watchman,  a  weekly  print,  is 
published  at  Greenport.  And  besides  the  Peconic  House  (which 
is  first,  by  all  odds,)  there  are  the  Greenport  House,  by  Mr. 
Terry,  and  the  Temperance  Hotel  by  old  Capt.  Clark. 

The  beauty  and  the  wealth  of  Long  Island  lie  mostly  along 
its  shores,  or  near  to  them.  Thus  it  is,  that  an  unfavorable 
impression  often  results  from  travelling  over  the  railroad — 
which,  just  beyond  Jamaica,  pursues  the  most  dreary  tract  af- 
forded by  Suffolk  and  Queen's  co's.  It  cuts  the  immense  tract 
called  Hempstead  Plains,  and  afterwards  keeps  a  picket  of 
"brush"  on  its  sides,  with  little  intermission,  till  it  gets  to 
Greenport.  If  the  traveller  were  to  go  a  short  distance  either 
north  or  south,  almost  anywhere  along  this  tract,  he  would 
be  quite  sure  to  find  a  rich  and  thrifty  settlement — rich  in  fer- 
tile acres,  agricultural  productions,  and  the  comforts  of  farm 
life.  He  would  also  find  himself  contiguous  either  to  the  Sound 
or  South  Bay — both  full  of  good  fish,  of  the  scaly  or  shelly 
order.  Much  of  the  simplicity  of  patriarchial  times,  too,  yet 
prevails  among  the  farmers  of  Suffolk — much  of  the  honesty, 
besides.  Even  the  Railroad  had  not  yet  been  able  to  eradi- 
cate it.1 

The  farmers  of  Suffolk  county!  A  sturdier  faction  of  that 
"country's  pride,"  which,  "once  lost,  can  never  be  supplied,"2 
does  not  exist.  Our  whig  neighbours  of  the  New  York  Tribune 
and  the  Brooklyn  Star  affect  to  look  with  sovereign  contempt 
on  them,  we  know;  they  point  annual  jokes  (about  election 
times,)  with  their  "benighted"  state,  and  so  on.  And  yet  a 
more  generally  intelligent  race  of  men  and  women  exists  no- 
where,— certainly  not  in  any  of  our  Atlantic  cities — than  the 
farmers  of  Suffolk  county.     They   have  little  parlor  polish, 

lCf.post,lyV.  179;  II,  p.  14. 

2 From  Goldsmith's  "The  Deserted  Village." 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  121 

perhaps — that  miserable  paint  with  which  a  poor  heart  so  often 
daubs  itself;  but  they  are  well-informed  on  general  topics,  clear 
in  their  political  views,  and  hospitable  to  a  fault.  Every  body 
knows  how  democratic  they  are:  and  here's  the  rub  to  the  whig 
prints  aforementioned.  We  consider  the  wit  which  aims  itself 
at  the  honest  simplicity  of  that  part  of  our  state  to  be  an  evi- 
dence unquestionable  of  either  a  very  silly  brain  or  a  very  bad 
heart. 

We  shall  remember  yesterday's  excursion  for  some  time,  with 
pleasure.  The  company  was  excellent — no  small  portion 
being  ladies.  A  car  was  attached,  filled  with  first-rate  refresh- 
ments; and  the  obliging  waiters  served  the  passengers  just  as 
the  latter  might  have  been  served  in  an  ordinary  public  dining 
or  ice-cream  room.  On  the  return,  nearly  every  body  had  a 
prodigious  bouquet.  Take  it  altogether,  it  was  creditable  to 
each  one  engaged  in  getting  it  up — and  to  the  L.  I.  Railroad  Co. 
as  much  as  any. 


"HOME"  LITERATURE1 

He  who  desires  to  see  this  noble  Republic  independent, 
not  only  in  name  but  in  fact,  of  all  unwholesome  foreign  sway 
must  ever  bear  in  mind  the  influence  of  European  literature 
over  us — its  tolerable  amount  of  good,  and  its,  we  hope,  "not 
to  be  endured"  much  longer,  immense  amount  of  evil.  That 
there  is  often  some  clap-trap  in  denunciations  of  English  books, 
we  have  no  disposition  to  deny, — but  the  evil  generally  leans 
on  the  other  side:  we  receive  with  a  blind  homage  whatever 
comes  to  us  stamped  with  the  approbation  of  foreign  critics — 
merely  because  it  is  so  stamped.  We  have  not  enough  confi- 
dence in  our  own  judgment;  we  forget  that  God  has  given  the 
American  mind  powers  of  analysis  and  acuteness  superior  to 
those  possessed  by  any  other  nation  on  earth. 

For  the  beautiful  creations  of  the  great  intellects  of  Europe — 
for  the  sweetness  of  majesty  of  Shakespeare,2  Goethe,3  and  some 
of  the  Italian  poets — the  fiery  breath  of  Byron,4  the  fascinating 
melancholy  of  Rousseau,5  the  elegance  and  candor  of  Hume 

1From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  July  II,  1846. 
2 For  Shakespeare's  influence  on  Whitman,  see  the  Subject  Index. 
zCf.  post,  I,  pp.  132,  139-141.         4Cf.  infra,  p.  48,  note  1. 

6Cf.  post,  I,  p.  243.  Professor  Perry  has  pointed  out  (loc.  cit.,  pp.  52,  69,  266,277- 
280)  numerous  points  of  similarity  between  Whitman  and  Rousseau. 


in  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

and  Gibbon — and  much  more  beside — we  of  the  western  world 
bring  our  tribute  of  admiration  and  respect.  Presumptious  and 
vain  would  it  be  for  us  to  decry  their  glorious  merits.  But  it 
must  not  be  forgotten,  that  many  of  the  most  literary  men  of 
England  are  the  advocates  of  doctrines  that  in  such  a  land  as 
ours  are  the  rankest  and  foulest  poison. — Cowper  teaches  blind 
loyalty  to  the  "divine  right  of  kings," — Johnson1  was  a  burly 
aristocrat — and  many  more  of  that  age  were  the  scorners  of  the 
common  people,  and  pour  adulation  on  the  shrine  of  "  toryism." 
Walter  Scott,  Croly,2  Alison,3  Sou  they,  and  many  others  well 
known  in  America,  exercise  an  evil  influence  through  their 
books,  in  more  than  one  respect;  for  they  laugh  to  scorn  the  idea 
of  republican  freedom  and  virtue. 

And  what  perfect  cataracts  of  trash  come  to  us  at  the  present 
day  from  abroad!  The  tinsel  sentimentality  of  Bulwer  is  but 
a  relief  from  the  inflated,  unnatural,  high-life-below-stairs, 
"  historical "  romances  of  Harrison  Ainsworth.  As  to  the  vulgar 
coarseness  of  Marryatt,4  the  dish-water  senility  of  Lady  Bless- 
ington,5  and  the  stuff  (there  is  no  better  word,)  of  a  long  string 
of  literary  quacks,  tapering  down  to  the  nastiness  of  the  French 
Paul  de  Kock  (who  in  reality  has  perhaps  more  talent  than  all 
the  others  put  together — malgre  his  awfully  murderous  trans- 
lations into  English,) — who  can  say  they  have  any  qualities 
which  recommend  them  to  that  wide  circulation  they  enjoy  on 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic?  Let  us  be  more  just  to  ourselves  and 
our  own  good  taste.  Why,  "  Professor"  Ingraham,6  and  those — 
their  name  is  legion — Misters  and  Madams  who  write  tales 
(does  any  body  ever  really  read  them  through?)  for  the  monthly 
magazines,  have  quite  as  much  genuine  ability  as  these  coiners  of 
unwholesome  reading  from  abroad! 

1Cf.  post,  I,  pp.  127-128. 

*George  Croly  (1 780-1 860),  an  Irish  poet,  clergyman,  and  writer  of  such  romances  as 
"Salathiel." 

•Probably  Sir  Archibald  Alison  (1 792-1 867),  the  Scotch  historian,  author  of  "History 
of  Europe  during  the  French  Revolution." 

♦Frederick  Marryat  (1 792-1 848),  captain  in  the  British  navy  and  author  of  "Mr. 
Midshipman  Easy"  and  other  novels. 

8Marguerite  Power,  Countess  of  Blessington  (1789-1849),  a  literary  patroness,  author 
of  "Conversations  with  Lord  Byron." 

"Joseph  Holt  Ingraham  (1 809-1 860),  a  sailor,  a  graduate  of  Bowdoin  College,  professor 
of  languages  in  Jefferson  College  (Natchez,  Miss.)  in  1832,  and  a  Protestant  Episcopal 
rector  of  St.  Thomas'  Hall,  a  boy's  school  (Holly  Springs,  Miss.),  after  1855.  He  wrote 
stories  of  adventure,  notably  "  Lafitte;  or  the  Pirate  of  the  Gulf,"  and  religious  romances, 
such  as  "The  Prince  of  the  House  of  David,"  which  did  much  to  remove  the  odium  from 
fiction  reading  in  America. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  123 

But  where  is  the  remedy?  says  the  inquisitive  reader.  In 
ourselves  we  must  look  for  it.  Let  those  who  read  (and  in  this 
country  who  does  not  read?)  no  more  condescend  to  patronize 
an  inferior  foreign  author,  when  they  have  so  many  respectable 
writers  at  home.  Shall  Hawthorne  get  a  paltry  seventy-five 
dollars  for  a  two-volume  work — shall  real  American  genius  shiver 
with  neglect — while  the  public  run  after  this  foreign  trash? 
We  hope,  and  we  confidently  expect,  that  the  people  of  this 
land  will  come  to  their  "sober  second  thought"  upon  the  sub- 
ject, and  that  soon. 


MORBID  APPETITE  FOR  MONEY1 

In  the  course  of  an  article  on  the  subject  of  the  influence  of 
wealth,  &c,  in  one  of  our  exchange  papers,  we  find  this  senti- 
ment: 

Poverty — poverty,  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  term — is  a 
thing  dreaded  by  mankind,  and  is  often  placed  among  the  catalogue 
of  crimes.  Such  is  the  poverty  that  fellowships  with  rags  and  beggary. 
But  there  is  another  species  of  poverty,  the  most  despicable  that 
can  be  imagined,  and  more  to  be  dreaded  than  all  other  earthly  ills 
and  maladies  combined.  We  mean  the  poverty  of  soul,  with  which 
rich  men  are  often  afflicted,  and  the  only  poverty  to  be  abhorred  and 
despised.  Men  who  oppress  and  cheat  the  poor — men  who  make 
wealth  the  standard  of  worth  and  respectability — men  who  make  gold 
their  god,  and  whose  devotions  consist  of  Dollar-Worship,  are  the  self- 
made  victims  of  this  poverty  of  soul,  compared  to  which  destitution  is  a 
Heaven  sent  blessing. 

On  no  particular  matter  is  the  public  mind  more  unhealthy 
than  the  appetite  for  money.  The  wild  schemes  of  visionary 
men — the  religious  excitements  of  misled  enthusiasts — the 
humbugs  of  ignorant  pretenders  to  knowledge — the  quackery 
of  the  thousand  imposters  of  all  descriptions  who  swarm  through 
the  land — have  their  followers  and  believers  for  a  time;  though 
the  weakness  which  always  attends  error  soon  carries  them  to 
oblivion. — They  glitter  for  a  moment — swim  for  a  day  on  the 
tide  of  public  favor — and  then  sink  to  a  deserved  and  endless 
repose.  But  the  mad  passion  for  getting  rich  does  not  die  away 
in  this  manner.  It  engrosses  all  the  thoughts  and  the  time  of 
men.     It  is  the  theme  of  all  their  wishes.     It  enters  into  their 

1From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  November  5,  1846. 
Cf.  infra,  pp.  37-39,  in; post,  I,  p.  a45i  n»  PP-  63~^7- 


i24  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

hearts  and  reigns  paramount  there.  It  pushes  aside  the  holy- 
precepts  of  religion,  and  violates  the  purity  of  justice.  The 
unbridled  desire  for  wealth  breaks  down  the  barriers  of  morality, 
and  leads  to  a  thousand  deviations  from  those  rules,  the  observ- 
ance of  which  is  necessary  to  the  well-being  of  our  people.  It 
is  that,  and  nothing  else,  which  has  led  to  the  commission  of 
those  robberies  of  the  public  treasury  that  have  in  years  past 
excited  the  astonishment  and  alarm  of  the  American  nation. 
It  is  the  feverish  anxiety  after  riches  that  leads  year  after  year 
to  the  establishment  of  those  immense  moneyed  institutions, 
which  have  so  impudently  practised  in  the  face  of  day,  frauds 
and  violations  of  their  engagements,  that  ought  to  make  the 
cheek  of  every  truly  upright  man  burn  with  indignation.1 
Reckless  and  unprincipled — controlled  by  persons  who  make 
them  complete  engines  of  selfishness — at  war  with  everything 
that  favors  our  true  interests — unrepublican,  unfair,  untrue, 
and  unworthy — these  bubbles  are  kept  afloat  solely  and  wholly 
by  the  fever  for  gaining  wealth.  .  .  .  The  same  unholy 
wish  for  great  riches  enters  into  every  transaction  of  society, 
and  more  or  less  taints  its  moral  soundness.  And  from  this  it  is 
that  the  great  body  of  the  working-men  should  seek  to  guard 
themselves.  Let  them  not  think  that  the  best  thing  on  earth,  and 
the  most  to  be  desired,  is  money.  For  of  all  the  means  neces- 
sary to  happiness,  wealth  is  at  least  a  secondary  one;  and  yet  all 
of  us  tacitly  unite  in  making  it  the  main  object  of  our  desire. — 
For  it  we  work  and  toil,  and  sweat  away  our  youth  and  man- 
hood, giving  up  the  improvement  of  our  minds  and  the  cultiva- 
tion of  our  physical  nature;  weakly  thinking  that  a  heap  of 
money,  when  we  are  old,  can  make  up  to  us  for  these  sacrifices. 
And  yet  when  we  see  the  universal  homage  paid  to  the  rich  man, 
it  appears  not  very  wonderful  that  people  are  so  greedy  for 
wealth.  But  let  us  think  again,  of  what  avail  or  of  what  true 
gratification  is  that  respect  which  is  paid  merely  to  money?  Is 
it  to  win  this  at  the  last — to  hear  men  admire — and  listen  to 
the  deferential  accents  of  the  low — for  which  hundreds  plod  on, 
and  on,  and  on — making  that  which  was  intended  as  the  pleas- 
antest  part  of  our  journey  here  a  burden  or  a  useless  waste?  Is 
it  to  gain  these  ends  that  men  fritter  away  the  sweet  spring  and 
summer  of  their  lives,  sinking  premature  wrinkles  into  their 
brows,  closing  their  hearts  to  the  sweet  promptings  of  nature  to 
enjoy;  and  finding  themselves,  at  an  advanced  stage  of  their 

*Cj. post,  II,  pp.  136-142. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  125 

existence,  with  abundance  of  worldly  means  for  happiness,  but 
past  the  legitimate  season  for  it?  Foolish  and  miserable  error! 
All  the  time  of  such  men  is  devoted  to  their  one  great  aim;  and  all 
their  fear  is  that  they  may  be  poor.  Want  of  wealth  is,  in  their 
idea,  the  greatest  of  miseries.  They  look  abroad  into  the 
world,  and  their  souls  seem  to  grasp  at  but  one  object — filthy 
lucre.  .  .  .  Now  let  us  be  more  just  to  our  own  nature. 
Let  us  cast  our  eyes  over  this  beautiful  earth,  where  so  much  of 
fair  joy,  of  pure  happiness,  of  grandeur,  of  love,  of  sunshine, 
exist;  looking  on  the  human  race  with  the  gentle  orbs  of  benevo- 
lence and  philosophy;  sending  our  glance  through  the  cool  and 
verdant  lanes — by  the  sides  of  the  blue  rivers — over  the  busy 
and  crowded  city — among  those  who  dwell  far  on  the  prairies — 
or  along  the  green  savannahs — or  where  the  monarch  of  rivers 
pours  his  dark  tide  into  the  sea;  and  we  shall  see  poor  men  every- 
where; and  we  shall  see  that  those  men  are  not  wretched  because 
they  are  poor;  and  we  shall  see  that  if  they  were  to  prove  luckier 
than  they  have  been,  and  were  to  become  rich,  they  would  not 
be  better  men — or  happier  men.  And  many  of  the  most  truly 
great  men  that  ever  lived  have  been  poor — have  passed  their 
days  in  the  vale — and  never  had  their  names  sounded  abroad 
by  applauding  mouths.  Silent  and  unknown — enjoying  the 
treasures  of  soul  inherent  within  them — superior  to  the  com- 
mon desire  for  notoriety — they  have  lived  and  died  in  obscure 
stations.  The  world  heard  not  of  them — statues  were  not 
built  to  them — nor  domes  consecrated  to  them — nor  cities 
honored  with  being  named  after  them.  But  they  were  never- 
theless of  characters  really  sublime  and  grand:  not  the  grandeur 
of  common  heroes,  but  the  grandeur  of  some  mighty  river, 
existing  in  a  part  of  the  world  as  yet  undiscovered,  holding  its 
broad  course  through  untrodden  banks,  and  its  capacious  riches 
not  open  to  the  world. 


CRITICISM— NEW  BOOKS1 

By  an  old  and  excellent  custom — a  custom  good  for  the 
public,  for  the  publishers  of  books,  and  for  editors  of  news- 
papers— new  books  are  presented  to  editors,  that  they  may 
mention  the  same,  and  thus  bring  them  before  their  readers. 
A  newspaper  that  does  not  give  such  notices  is  "  behind  the  age; " 

*  From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle  >  November  9, 1 846. 


126     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

for  brief  as  those  notices  generally  are,  they  enable  a  man  to 
keep  up  with  what  is  doing  in  the  literary  world,  and  to  see  the 
gradual  steps  made  in  the  advancement  of  every  thing.  This 
is  true — as  any  one  will  acknowledge  after  a  moment's  reflection; 
for  he  who  gets  no  inkling  of  any  of  the  new  developments 
constantly  made,  through  books  (and  he  will  get  that  inkling 
through  honestly  written  book-notices,)  lives  quite  in  the  Past. 
.  .  .  The  custom  alluded  to  has  another  good  effect  also — 
it  enables  editors  to  keep  up,  in  some  sort,  with  the  foremost 
ones  of  the  age.  For  though  it  cannot  be  expected  that  they 
will  study  from  top  to  bottom  every  book  they  have — that 
skimming  tact  which  an  editor  gets  after  some  experience, 
enables  him  to  take  out  at  a  dash  the  meaning  of  a  book — and 
his  paper  and  his  readers  are  invariably  the  gainers  by  it. 
An  editor  thus  surrounded  by  the  current  literature  of  the  age — 
by  thoughts  and  facts  evolved  from  master-minds,  as  well  as 
imitators — cannot  lag  behind.  In  a  thousand  invisible  but  po- 
tent ways  the  result  is  good  for  his  professional  labors. 

As  to  the  book-notices  in  this  journal,  we  hope  to  say  nothing 
amiss,  when  we  say  that  our  readers  lose  something  when 
they  lose  the  reading  of  them.  They  are  our  candid  opinions; 
leaning,  as  we  prefer  to  lean,  to  a  kindly  vein — as  it  is  not  our 
province  to  "cut  up  "  authors.  ...  (A  new  book  was  sent 
to  us  the  other  day  with  a  highly  eulogistic  written  notice,  to  be 
inserted  as  editorial.  We  can't  do  such  things.)1.  ...  It 
certainly  were  no  compliment  to  the  taste  of  Brooklynites,  to 
assume  that  they  feel  no  interest  in  literary  matters. 


[EXTRACTS     FROM    WHITMAN'S     CRITICISMS    OF 
BOOKS  AND  AUTHORS,  CULLED  FROM  THE  BROOK- 
LYN DAILY  EAGLE  OF  1 846-1 848] 2 

"Arabian  Nights'  Entertainment" 

They  bring  up  the  loving  and  greedy  eagerness  with  which 
boyhood  read  these  tales — a  love  surpassing  the  love  for 
puddings  and  confectionery.     .     .     .     The  minds  of  boys 

iC/.post,??.  153,157. 

2I  believe  it  safe  to  say  that  Whitman  reviewed  more  books,  and  knew  more  about 
books,  than  any  contemporary  editor  in  Brooklyn,  if  not  in  New  York,  exclusive  of  the 
editors  of  the  literary  periodicals.  It  was  he  who  introduced  the  literary  miscellany 
into  the  Eagle  and  who  first  gave  prominence  to  book  reviewing  through  its  columns. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  127 

and  girls  warm  and  expand — become  rich  and  generous — 
under  the  aspect  of  such  florid  pages  as  those  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,  the  Arabian  Nights,  Marco  Polo,  and  the  like. 
[October  II,  1847.] 

"Bible,  The  Holy,"  Harper's  Illuminated  Edition. 

It  is  almost  useless  to  say  that  no  intelligent  man  can 
touch  the  Book  of  Books  with  an  irreverent  hand.  [Octo- 
ber 21,  1846.] 

Boswell  James:  "The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.,  In- 
cluding a  Journal  of  a  Tour  of  the  Herbrides",  Croaker, 
John  Wilson,  ed.,  in  two  volumes. 

We  are  no  admirer  of  such  characters  as  Dr.  Johnson. 
He  was  a  sour,  malicious,  egotistical  man.  He  was  a 
sycophant  of  power  and  rank,  withal;  his  biographer  nar- 
rates that  he  "always  spoke  with  rough  contempt  of  pop- 
ular liberty."  His  head  was  educated  to  the  point  plus, 
but  for  his  heart,  might  still  more  unquestionably  stand 


In  the  course  of  two  years  he  quoted  from  nearly  a  hundred  more  or  less  well-known 
authors  and  reviewed  more  than  a  hundred  other  books.  In  some  cases,  he  merely 
glanced  at  preface  and  table  of  contents;  in  other  cases  he  skipped  through  the  volume; 
but  good  books  sometimes  received  more  than  one  reading  at  his  hands  and  more  than 
one  notice.  In  all  cases,  his  library  was  being  steadily  increased.  That  the  student 
may  have  a  better  idea  of  what  Whitman  was  reading  just  before,  and  at  the  time  of, 
his  first  work  on  the  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  I  append  a  list  of  the  more  important  books 
noticed  or  reviewed  in  the  Eagle: 

William  Harrison  Ainsworth's  "The  Miser's  Daughter";  Anthon's  'Dictionary  of  Greek 
and  Roman  Antiquities";  Baxter's  (Richard)  "Life  and  Writings";  Robert  Bell's 
"Life  of  the  Rt.  Hon.  George  Canning";  Berrian's  "An  Historical  Sketch  of  Trinity 
Church,  N.  Y.";  J.  D.  Blake's  "History  of  the  American  Revolution";  William  Bolles's 
"Phonographic  Pronouncing  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language";  J.  R.  Boyd's  "Eclectic 
Moral  Philosophy";  E.  L.  Bulwer's  "Lucretia;  or  The  Children  of  the  Night";  Cham- 
bers' "Encyclopaedia  of  English  Literature";  Chambers'  "Miscellany  of  Useful  and 
Entertaining  Knowledge";  A.  B.  Chapin's  "Puritanism  Not  Genuine  Protestantism"; 
Lydia  Maria  Child's  "Fact  and  Fiction"  and  "Memoirs  of  Madame  de  Stael  and  of 
Madame  Roland";  Coleridge's  "Aids  to  Reflection";  Colman's "Juvenile  Publications"; 
D'Aubigne's  "History  of  the  Reformation  of  the  Sixteenth  Century";  J.  H.  Merle 
D'Aubigne's  "The  Protector;  A  Vindication";  Father  P.  J.  DeSmet's  "Oregon 
Missions";  Charles  D.  Desher's  "Chaucer  and  Selections  from  His  Poetical  Works"; 
Dickens's  "The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,"  "The  Chimes,"  "A  Goblin  Story,"  "A  Christ- 
mas Carol,"  etc.,  in  one  volume;  Dumas's  "The  Duke  of  Burgundy";  Duncan's  "Sacred 
Philosophy  of  the  Seasons";  Theodore  Dwight's  "Summer  Tours";  Mrs.  E.  F.  Ellet's 
" Rambles  About  the  Country";  Thomas  F.  Farnham's  "Mexico:  Its  Geography,  Its 
People,  and  Its  Institutions"  and  "Life,  Travels,  and  Adventures  in  California  and 
Scenes  in  the  Pacific  Ocean";  "Father  Darcy";  Mrs.  S.  Ferrier's  "The  Inheritance"; 
Richard  Ford's  "Spaniards  and  Their  Country";  John  Foster's  "The  Statesmen  of 
the  Commonwealth  of  England";  L.  N.  Fowler's  "Marriage,  Its  History  and  Cere- 
monies"; O.  S.  Fowler's  "Physiology,  Animal  and  Mental"  and  "Memory  and  Intellectual 


128  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

the  sign  minus.  *  *  *  Nor  were  the  freaks  of  this  man 
the  mere  "eccentricities  of  genius":  they  were  provably 
the  faults  of  a  vile  low  nature.  His  soul  was  a  bad  one. 
[But  Whitman  gives  Doctor  Johnson  a  certain  amount  of 
credit  for  his  "Dictionary".]     [December  7,  1846.] 

Bremer,  Frederika:1  Harper's  Edition  of  her  works,  containing 
"The  Neighbours,"  "The  Home,"  "The  President's 
Daughter,"  "Nina,"  "Strife  and  Peace,"  "Life  in  Dela- 
cardia,"  etc.  [Translated  by  Mary  Howitt.] 
If  we  ever  have  children,  the  first  book  after  the  New  Testa- 
ment, (with  reverence  we  say  it)  that  shall  be  made  their 
household  companion — a  book  whose  spirit  shall  be  infused 
in  them  as  sun-warmth  is  infused  in  the  earth  in  spring — 
shall  be  Miss  Bremer's  novels.  We  know  nothing  more 
likely  to  melt  and  refine  the  human  character — particularly 
the  young  character.  In  the  study  of  the  soul  portraits 
therein  delineated — in  their  motives,  actions,  and  the  re- 
sults of  those  actions — every  youth,  of  either  sex,  will  be 
irresistibly  impelled  to  draw  some  moral,  and  make  some 
profitable  application  to  his  or  her  own  case.  [August  18, 
1846.] 

Bryant,  William  Cullen2 

We  have  called  Bryant  one  of  the  best  poets  in  the  world. 
This  smacks  so  much  of  the  exaggerated  that  we  are  half  a 
mind  to  alter  it,  true  as  we  sincerely  believe  it  to  be.     But 

Improvement";  John  G.  Gait's  "Treatment  of  Insanity";  Goodwin's  "Lives  of  the 
Necromancers";  Mrs.  Gore's  "The  Courtier  of  the  Days  of  Charles  II";  William 
Augustus  Guy's  "Doctor  Hopper's  Physicians'  Vade  Mecum";  Henry  Hallam's  "The 
Constitutional  History  of  England";  Headley's  "Washington  and  His  Generals";  Henry 
William  Herbert's  "Roman  Traitor,  A  True  Tale  of  the  Republic";  "Jack  Long,  or 
Shot  in  the  Eye";  Douglas  Jerrould's  "St.  Giles  and  St.  James";  "Julia  Ormond,  or 
The  New  Settlement";  Mrs.  C.  M.  Kirkland's  "Spenser  and  the  Fairy  Queen";  James 
Sheridan  Knowles's  "Fortesque";  "Laneton  Parsonage";  Mrs.  R.  Lee's  "Memoirs  of 
Baron  Cuvier";  "Life  of  Christ  in  the  Words  of  the  Evangelists";  "Lives  of  Eminent 
Individuals  Celebrated  in  American  History,"  three  volumes;  Abiel  Abott  Livermore's 
"Lectures  to  Young  Men";  "Locke  Amsden,  or  The  Schoolmaster";  B.  C.  Edwards 
Lester's  "Houston  and  His  Republic";  Benson  J.  Lossing's  "Seventeen  Hundred  and 
Seventy-Six";  "Martyrs  and  Covenanters  of  Scotand";  A.  Slidell  Mackenzie's  "Spain 
Revisited";  Mary  J.  Mcintosh's  "Two  Lives,  or  To  Seem  and  To  Be";  A.  D.  Mayo's 
"Balance"  (on  universalism);  "Memoirs  of  the  Most  Eminent  American  Mechanics"; 
Thomas  Miller's  "The  Poetical  Language  of  Flowers";  Dr.  George  Moore's  "The  Use 
of  the  Body  in  Relation  to  the  Mind";  Morse's  "School  Geography  and  Atlas";  Baron 
John  von  Muller's  "History  of  the  World"  (trans,  by  Alexander  H.  Everett);  Olmstead's 
"Letters  on  Astronomy";  Francis  Sargent  Osgood's  "A  Birth-Day  Bijou";  Miss  Par- 

lCf.  infra,  p.  114.        2Cf.  infra,  p.  115,  note;  post,  I,  p.  242,  note. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  129 

we  will  let  it  stand.  *  *  *  Moreover,  there  will  come  a 
time  when  the  writings  of  this  beautiful  poet  shall  attain 
their  proper  rank — a  rank  far  higher  than  has  been  ac- 
corded to  them  by  many  accomplished  men,  who  think  of 
them  by  no  means  disparagingly.     [September  1,  1846.] 

Carlyle,  Thomas:  "Heroes  and  Hero  Worship." 

Under  his  rapt,  wierd  (grotesque?)  style  the  writer  of  this 
work  has  placed — we  may  almost  say  hidden — many  noble 
thoughts.  That  his  eyes  are  clear  to  the  numerous  ills 
which  afflict  humanity,  and  that  he  is  a  Democrat  in  that 
enlarged  sense  [in]  which  we  would  fain  see  more  men  Demo- 
crats;— that  he  is  quick  to  champion  the  down-trodden,  and 
earnest  in  his  wrath  at  tyranny — is  evident  enough  in 
almost  any  one  page  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  writings.  .  .  . 
We  must  confess,  however,  that  we  would  have  preferred 
to  get  the  thoughts  of  this  truly  good  thinker,  in  a  plainer 
and  more  customary  garb.  No  great  writer  achieves  any- 
thing worthy  of  him,  by  merely  inventing  a  new  style. 
Style  in  writing,  is  much  as  dress  in  society;  sensible  people 
will  conform  to  the  prevalent  mode,1  and  it  is  not  of  infinite 
importance  anyhow,  and  can  always  be  so  varied  as  to 
fit  one's  peculiar  way,  convenience,  or  circumstance. 
[October  17,  1846.] 

doe's  "Louis  the  Fourteenth";  Samuel  Parker's  "Journal  of  an  Exploring  Tour  Beyond 
the  Rocky  Mountains";  Mrs.  Phelps's  "The  Fireside  Friend,  or  Female  Student"; 
Prescott's  "Conquest  of  Peru";  Joseph  Salkeld's  "Classical  Antiquities";  M.  B.  Samp- 
son's "Rationale  of  Crime";  Epes  Sargent's  "Songs  of  the  Sea  and  Other  Poems"; 
Dr.  Leonard  Schmitz's  "History  of  Rome";  Mrs.  Sigourney's  "Water-Drops";  William 
Gilmore  Simms's  "Guy  Rivers:  A  Tale  of  Georgia";  Frederick  Soulie's  "Pastourel" 
and  "Countess  of  Morion";  Alden  Spooner's  "The  Grape  Vine";  J.  G.  Spurzheim's 
"Phrenology";  Story's  "Commentaries  on  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States"; 
Eugene  Sue's  "Martin  the  Foundling"  and  "The  Wandering  Jew";  W.  C.  Taylor's 
"Modern  British  Plutarch";  "Thornberry  Abbey";  Henry  Thornton's  "Family 
Prayers";  Thomas  Timpson's  "Memoirs  of  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fry";  "Michael  Angelo 
Titmarsh's"  "Notes  on  a  Journey  From  Cornhill  to  Cairo";  Turnbull's  "Genius  of 
Scotland";  Thomas  C.  Upham's  "Life  of  Madame  de  la  Mothe  Guyon,  With  Some 
Account  of  Fenelon,  Archbishop  of  Cambray";  J.  Van  Lennep's  "The  Adopted  Son" 
(trans,  by  W.  E.  Hoskins);  Dr.  von  Tschudi's  "Travels  in  Peru";  John  Ware's  "Memoir 
of  the  Life  of  Henry  Ware,  jr.";  James  F.  Warner's  "Rudimental  Lessons  in  Music"; 
Dr.  Francis  Wayland's  "The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge  Under  Difficulties";  J.  K.  Well- 
man's  "Illustrated  Botany";  Francis  C.  Wemyss'  "Twenty-Six  Years  of  the  Life  of  an 
Actor  and  Manager";  N.  P.  Willis's  "Sacred  Poems";  Marcius  Willson's  "American 
History";   Whittier's  "Supernaturalism   in  New   England."     Total — ioo  volumes. 

As  further  showing  the  scope  of  Whitman's  literary  information  and  his  taste  at  the 
time,  I  have  compiled  the  following  list  of  authors,  American  and  foreign,  from  whom  he 

*Cf.post,  I,  p.  162. 


130  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

"The  French  Revolution.  A  History."  [Revised  edition.] 
Mr.  Carlyle's  genius,  as  evolved  in  the  work  whose  title  we 
have  given  above,  is  too  broad  a  subject,  and  provokes  too 
many  inferences,  to  be  properly  treated  in  one  of  these  short 
notices.     [November  23,  1 846.] 

"Past  and  Present,  and  Chartism,"  in  two  parts. 

One  likes  Mr.  Carlyle,  the  more  he  communes  with  him; 
there  is  a  sort  of  fascination  about  the  man.  His  wierd 
wild  way — his  phrases,  welded  together  as  it  were,  with 
strange  twistings  of  the  terminatives  of  words — his  startling 
suggestions — his  taking  up,  fish-hook  like,  certain  matters 
of  abuse — make  an  original  kind  of  composition,  that  gets, 
after  a  little  usage,  to  be  strangely  agreeable!  This  "Past 
and  Present,  and  Chartism,"  now — who  would  ever  puzzle 
out  the  drift  of  the  book  from  the  chapter-heads?  from 
such  phrases  as  "Plugson  on  undershot,"  or  "the  One  in- 
stitution," or  "Gospel  of  Dilletantism"?  And  yet  there 
lies  rich  ore  under  that  vague  surface.     [April  14,  1847.] 

Channing,  William  Ellery:  "Self-Culture." 

We  have  always  considered  it  an  unsurpassed  piece,  either 
as  to  its  matter  or  manner.     [June  28,  1847.] 

has  quoted  either  in  his  Miscellany  or  in  his  Sunday  Reading  columns.  These  are  in 
addition  to  the  reviews  given  above.  In  some  cases  the  quotations  are  in  verse,  in  others 
they  are  in  prose.  Many  of  the  quotations  fill  a  column  or  less,  while  some  are  novel- 
ettes and  run  for  several  issues.  The  numbers  in  parenthesis  indicate  the  frequency  of 
quotation,  except  where  only  one  extract  is  made. 

James  Aldrich,  T.  S.  Arthur,  Honore  Balzac,  Miss  Barrett,  Park  Benjamin  (2), 
Blackwood's  Magazine,  Frederika  Bremer,  William  Cullen  Bryant  (7),  J.  H.  Bright  (2), 
Lord  Byron,  Thomas  Carlyle,  William  M.  Campbell,  J.  Maria  Child,  M.  Constant, 
Eliza  Cook  (6),  The  Dial,  Charles  Dickens,  E.  J.  Eames,  Thomas  Dunn  English,  Goethe, 
John  D.  Godman,  Theodore  A.  Gould  (n),  Mrs.  Gove,  Washington  Irving  (3),  Mrs. 
Sarah  J.  Hale,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (2),  William  Hazlitt,  Johann  Gottfried  von  Herder 
(4),  Mrs.  Hemans,  George  Herbert  (2),  Mrs.  Mary  H.  Hewitt,  Mary  Howitt  (5),  William 
Howitt,  Thomas  Hood  (2),  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  (2),  William  Henry  Cuyler  Hosmer, 
R.  Hoyt,  Leigh  Hunt  (3),  Victor  Hugo  (2),  Mrs.  C.  M.  Kirkland,  Karl  Theodor  Korner, 
Friedrich  Wilhelm  (?)  Krummacher,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  (22),  Samuel  Lover 
(4),  James  Russell  Lowell  (2),  Charles  Mackay,  Thomas  Mackellar,  Jean  Francois  Mar-< 
montel  (2),  R.  M.  Milnes,  Miss  Mitford,  William  Motherwell,  Mrs.  Norton,  Joseph  A. 
Nunes,  Susan  Pindar,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  "Jean   Paul"  Richter,  William  Rogers,  Epes 

Sargent  (2), Schiller,  Mrs.  Sedgewick,  Mrs.  Sigourney  (6), Simpson  (a  traveller),  Mrs. 

Seba  Smith,  Mrs.  Southey,  Alfred  B.  Street,  Charles  Swain  (2)  J.  B.  Taylor,  T.  B.  Thayer 
Thompson,  Albert  Tracy,  Johann  Ludwig  Uhland  (2),  Heinrich  Voss,  John  Green- 
leaf  Whittier  (6),  N.  P.  Willis  (2),  Johann  Heinrich  Daniel  Zschokke  (2).  Total— 75 
authors. 

Some  of  the  book  reviews  given  here  in  brief  excerpts  may  be  found  in  full  in  "  The 
Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  260  fi\,  passim. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  131 

Coleridge,   Samuel  Taylor:   "Letters,   Conversations,   and 
Recollections." 

Indeed  anything  relating  to  Coleridge — that  legitimate 
child  of  imagery,  and  true  poet — will  for  many  years  yet 
be  interesting.     [February  20,  1847.] 

"  Biographia  Literaria,"  in  two  volumes. 
To  a  person  of  literary  taste,  the  first  pleasure  of  reading 
any  thing  written  by  Coleridge  will  be,  that  it  is  written  in 
such  choice  and  unaffected  style — next  that  the  author  evi- 
dently lays  open  his  whole  heart  with  the  artlessness  of  a 
child — and  next  that  there  is  no  commonplace  or  cant. 
These  are  exceedingly  rare  merits,  at  the  present  day. 
.  .  .  "Biographia  Literaria"  will  reach  the  deepest 
thoughts  of  the  "  choice  few"  among  readers  who  can  appre- 
ciate the  fascinating  subtleties  of  Coleridge;  and  both  vol- 
umes will  be  entertaining  to  the  general  reader,  from  their 
fund  of  anecdote,  and  the  good  humor  that  will  rise  to 
the  surface  even  of  such  a  poetical  nature  as  that  child  of 
song's.  In  some  respects  we  think  this  man  stands  above 
all  poets:  he  was  passionate  without  being  morbid — he  was 
like  Adam  in  Paradise,  and  almost  as  free  from  artificiality. 
[December  4,  1847.] 

Dixon,  Dr.  Edward  H.:  "Woman  and  Her  Diseases,  From  the 
Cradle  to  the  Grave." 

"To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure"  is  the  not  inappropriate 
motto  of  this  work:  and  the  mock  delicacy  that  condemns 
the  widest  possible  diffusion  among  females  of  such  knowl- 
edge as  is  contained  in  this  book,  will  receive  from  us  no 
quarter.  Let  any  one  bethink  him  a  moment  how  rare  is 
the  sight  of  a  well-developed,  healthy,  naturally  beautiful 
woman:  let  him  reflect  how  widely  the  customs  of  our 
artificial  life,  joined  with  ignorance  of  physiological  facts, 
are  increasing  the  rarity  (if  we  may  be  allowed  such  an 
approach  to  a  bull,) — and  he  will  hardly  dispute  the  neces- 
sity of  such  publications  as  this.     [March  4,  1847.] 

Dumas,  Alexander:  "The  Count  of  Monte-Christo. " 

[Whitman  mentions  this  but  has  not  read  it;  in  Dumas's 
earlier  works  he  finds  "a  pleasant  gracefulness  and  vivac- 
ity."]    [September  30,  1846.] 


132  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

"Sylvandire." 

We  like  this  better  as  a  story,  than  the  foregoing,  by  the 
same  author  ["  Diana  of  Meridor"].  Indeed,  we  think  there 
are  not  many  books,  of  its  scope,  with  superior  interest. 
[April  14,  1847.] 


* 


"Memoirs  of  a  Physician" 

*     *     a  wild,  hurrying,  exciting  affair;  full  of  its  author's 
characteristics.     [May  31,  1847.] 


Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo1 

*  *  *  one  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson's  inimitable  lectures 
[that  on  "Spiritual  Laws,"  which  he  quotes].  [December 
15,  1847.] 

Fuller,  Margaret:  "Papers  on  Literature  and  Art." 

[Though  some  treat  with  supercilious  contempt  such  works 
when  essayed  by  women]  we  are  not  thus  disposed.  WTe 
think  the  female  mind  has  peculiarly  the  capacity,  and 
ought  to  have  the  privilege,  to  enter  into  the  discussion  of 
high  questions  of  morals,  taste,  &c.  We  therefore  welcome 
Miss  Fuller's  papers,  right  heartily.     [November  9,  1846.] 

Goethe,  Johann  Wolfgang  Von:  "The  Autobiography  of 
Goethe."  [Third  and  Fourth  Parts;  translated  by  Parke 
Godwin.]2 

The  truthful  truthfulness  which  characterizes  its  revelations 
is  especially  refreshing,  for  in  these  days  there  is  an  im- 
mense contagion  of  affected  truthfulness,  beyond  all  bearing, 
and  nauseous  to  an  extreme,  general  as  it  is!  We  like 
Goethe's  autobiography  because  it  throws  off  quite  all  of 
this  affectation,  and  writes  as  an  intelligent  man  would 
write  to  a  refined  and  sincere  friend.     [June  28,  1 847.] 

Guizot,  Francois:  "History  of  the  English  Revolution  of 
1640,"  in  two  volumes. 

Here  is  one  of  the  really  valuable  books  of  the  age.  [But 
Whitman  has  not  read  it  thoroughly  "as  yet."]  [March 
5,  1846.] 

lCf.  post,  II,  pp.53-54. 
*Cf.post,  I,  pp.  139-141. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  133 

Hazlitt,  William:  "Napoleon  Bonaparte." 

This  masterpiece  of  style,  earnestness,  clearness,  and 
spirit — this  best  (to  our  notion)  of  all  the  histories  of  the 
great  "soldier  of  fortune".  .  .  .  We  have  on  a  former 
occasion1  expressed,  more  fully,  our  opinions  of  the  de- 
mocracy of  this  work.     [April  2,  1847.] 

Ho witt,  Mary:  "Ballads." 

Among  the  Brooklyn  Eagle  s  most  favored  favorites  stands 
the  sweet  authoress  of  these  poems!     [February  2,  1847.] 

Irving,   Washington:2   "Life    and   Voyages   of  Christopher 
Columbus."     [Abridged  edition.] 

Our  poor  commendation  is  not  needed  for  any  writings  of 
such  a  man  as  Irving.     [March  12,  1847.] 

Keats,  John:  "Poetical  Works,"  in  two  volumes. 

Keats — peace  to  his  ashes — was  one  of  the  pleasantest  of 
modern  poets,  and,  had  not  the  grim  monster  Death  so 
early  claimed  him,  would  doubtless  have  become  one  of  the 
most  distinguished.     [March  5,  1846.] 

Lamb,  Charles3 

*  *  *  the  pleasant  Elia,  the  delicate-humored.  [Feb- 
ruary 13,  1847.] 

Lamartine,  Alphonse:  "History  of  the  Girondists." 

*  *  *  it  is,  we  think  we  can  say,  the  most  dramatic  work 
we  ever  read — too  dramatic,  perhaps,  for  the  higher  pur- 
poses of  history — though  its  intensity  of  interest  is  in- 
creased bv  the  same  cause.     [August  10,  1847.] 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth:  "Poems,"  Harper's  Edition. 

*  *  *  We  consider  Mr.  Longfellow  to  be  gifted  by  God 
with  a  special  faculty  of  dressing  beautiful  thoughts  in 
beautiful  words.  The  country  is  not  half  just  to  this  elo- 
quent writer;  an  honor  and  a  glory  as  he  is  to  the  American 
name — and  deserving  to  stand  on  the  same  platform  with 

1  March  15, 1847;  this  interesting  comment  on  the  French  Revolution  may  be  found  in 
"The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  284-287. 

*  Cf.  post,  II,  p.  5. 

»C/./>w/,II,p.  156. 


134  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Bryant  and  Wordsworth.     [Whitman   then  quotes  from 
"The  Rain"]  as  a  suggestion  of  how  the  commonest  oc- 
currences offer  themes  of  great  thoughts  to  the  true  poet. 
[October  12,  1846.] 
"Evangeline — A  Tale  of  Acadie." 

And  so  ends  the  poem  like  a  solemn  psalm,  the  essence  of 
whose  deep  religious  music  still  lives  on  in  your  soul,  and 
becomes  a  part  of  you.  You  have  soon  turned  over  its 
few  pages,  scanned  every  line,  and  reached  the  issue  of  the 
story,  and  perhaps  idly  regret  that  there  is  no  more  of  it, 

"But  a  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever;" 
and  we  may  thank  Mr.  Longfellow  for  some  hours  of  pure 
religious,  living  tranquility  of  soul.     [November  20,  1847.] 

Melville,  Herman:  "Omoo,"  in  two  volumes. 

*     *     *    most  readable  sort  of  reading.     [May  5,  1847.] 

Michelet,  Jules:  "History  of  France."  [Translated  by  G. 
H.  Smith.] 

Of  the  many  standard  works  from  his  pen,  the  history  of 
France  is  on  some  accounts  the  best:  he  appears  to  have 
taken  pride  and  pains  in  making  it  the  fullest  and  clearest. 
[April  22,  1847.] 

Milton,  John:  "Poems,"  Harper's  Edition,  in  two  volumes. 
As  a  writer  Milton  is  stern,  lofty,  and  grand;  his  themes 
are  heavenly  high,  and  profoundly  deep.  A  man  must 
have  something  of  the  poet's  own  vast  abruptness  (if  we 
[may]  use  such  a  term),  in  order  to  appreciate  this  writer, 
who,  apparently  conscious  of  his  own  gigantic  proportions, 
disdains  the  usual  graces  and  tricks  of  poets  who  are  read 
more  widely,  and  understood  more  easily,  because  they 
have  not  his  qualities.  The  towering  pile  of  cliffs,  with 
yawning  caverns  in  the  side,  the  mysterious  summits 
piercing  the  clouds,  while  the  lightning  plays  on  their  naked 
breasts,  is  not,  to  the  usual  world,  half  so  favorite  an 
object  as  the  landscape  of  cultivated  meadows  fringed  with 
a  little  wood,  and  watered  by  a  placid  stream.  [January 
10,  1848.] 

Raumer,  Frederich  Ludwig  Georg  Von:  "America." 

[Whitman  is  reading  it  for  the  second  time  since  its  publi- 
cation "last  summer,"  and  rates  it  highly  as  a  defense  of 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  135 

American  institutions.]  As  a  turner  aside  of  the  sneers  and 
falsehoods  of  our  distant  libellers,  it  is  perhaps  well  that 
the  work  is  so  strong  in  our  favor.  But  here  at  home  it 
will  do  no  harm  to  remember  that  we  have  not  by  any 
means  reached  perfection.  The  abuse  has  prevailed  so 
thoroughly  in  foreigners'  accounts  of  us,  however,  that 
probably  the  baron  has  allowed  himself  deliberately  to  lean 
to  the  other  side  as  far  as  possible.  Heaven  bless  him  for  it! 
and  heaven  bless  him,  too,  for  his  imperturbable  good  tem- 
per, which  spreads  through  all  he  writes!  [October  8, 
1846.] 

Ruskin,  John:  "Modern  Painters,"  first  American  edition. 

It  is  indeed  worthy  of  the  reading  of  every  lover  of  what 
we  must  call  intellectual  chivalry,  enthusiasm,  and  a  high- 
toned  sincerity,  disdainful  of  the  flippant  tricks  and  petty 
arts  of  small  writers.     [July  22,  1847.] 

"Sand,  George":1  "The  Journeyman  Joiner."  [Translated  by 
George  Shaw.] 

That  Madame  Sand's  works  are  looked  upon  by  a  portion  of 
the  public,  and  of  critics,  with  a  feelingof  great  repugnance, 
there  is  no  denying.  But  the  talented  French  woman  is 
nevertheless  one  of  a  class  much  needed  in  the  world — 
needed  lest  the  world  stagnate  in  wrongs  merely  from  pre- 
cedent. We  are  fully  of  the  belief  that  "free  discussion," 
upon  any  subject  of  general  and  profound  interest,  is  not 
only  allowable,  but  in  most  cases  desirable.  And  this  is  all 
we  have  to  say  to  those  who  put  Madame  Sand's  books 
down  by  a  mere  flourish  of  prejudice.  .  .  .  The 
"Journeyman  Joiner"  is  a  work  of  very  great  interest  as  a 
story.  Indeed  we  know  of  few  that  are  more  so.  [Sep- 
tember 27,  1847.] 

Schlegel,  Frederick  Von:  "The  Philosophy  of  Life  and 
Philosophy  of  Language."  [Translated  by  A.  J.  W. 
Morrison.] 

Disquisitions  on  the  most  solemn  subjects  that  can  engage 
human  thought  form  the  first  sections  of  this  book.  [De- 
cember 7,  1847.] 

i<y.  fast,  II,  P.  53. 


136  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Sedgwick,  Theodore:  "The  American  Citizen;  his  True  Posi- 
tion, Character  and  Duties." 
It  is  a  noble  discourse!     [November  8,  1847.] 

Simms,  William  Gilmore:  "The  Wigwam  and  the  Cabin," 
Second  Series. 

Simms  is  unquestionably  one  of  the  most  attractive  writers 
of  the  age;  and  yet  some  of  his  characters — to  our  mind 
at  least — are  in  exceedingly  bad  taste.  It  may  be  all  well 
enough  to  introduce  a  "foul  rabble  of  lewd  spirits,"  in 
order  to  show  that  "Virtue  can  triumph  even  in  the  worst 
estates,"  but  it  is  our  impression  that  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  refinement — to  say  nothing  of  heads  of  families — 
would  rather  take  the  maxim  upon  trust  than  have  it  ex- 
emplified to  them  or  their  children  through  the  medium 
of  a  picture  so  very  coarse  and  indelicate  in  its  details,  as 
that  drawn  by  Mr.  Simms  in  his  "Caloya."  [But  praise 
is  accorded  to  other  tales  in  the  volume.]     [March  9,  1846.] 

Taylor,  Bayard:  "  Views  Afoot." 

We  have  scanned  them  with  much  enjoyment.  [December 
4,  1846.] 

Thomson,  James:  "The  Seasons." 

His  "Seasons"  is  not  surpassed  by  any  book  with  which 
we  are  acquainted,  in  its  happy  limning  of  the  scenes  it 
professes  to  represent;  in  its  faculty  of  bringing  before  the 
reader  the  clear  sight  of  everything  in  its  scope.  [Novem- 
ber 24,  1847.] 

Tupper,    Martin    [Farquhar]:  "Probabilities,     An    Aid    to 
Faith." 

[It]  has  a  lofty,  an  august  scope  of  intention!  It  treats  of 
the  great  mysteries  of  the  future,  of  God  and  his  attributes, 
of  the  fall  of  man,  of  heaven  and  hell !  The  author,  Mr. 
Tupper,  is  one  of  the  rare  men  of  the  time.  He  turns  up 
thoughts  as  with  a  plow,  on  the  sward  of  monotonous 
usage.  We  should  like  well  to  go  into  this  book,  in  a  fuller 
article;  but  justice  to  it  would  require  many  pages.  [Feb- 
ruary 20,  1847.] 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  137 

Walton,  Izaac:  "The  Lives  of  Dr.  John  Donne,  Sir  Henry 
Wotten,  Mr.  Richard  Hooker,  Mr.  George  Herbert,  and 
Dr.  Robert  Sanderson." 

It  is  refreshing  to  peruse  a  style  of  charming  simplicity, 
ingrained  with  a  manly  natural  elegance.  The  life  of  gen- 
tle Izaac  himself  is  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  book. 
[But  Whitman  finds  the  volume  refreshing  as  a  whole.] 
[December  21, 1846.] 


WORKING-WOMEN l 

The  evils  and  horrors  connected  with  the  payment,  in  this 
quarter  of  the  country,  for  women's  labor — sewing,  book- 
folding,  umbrella- work,  etc.,  etc. — are  a  monotonous  subject  of 
complaint  enough;  and  people  are  quite  ready  to  say,  It's  of  no 
use  to  write  about  that.  But  when  we  see  how  the  continued, 
persevering,  incessant,  honest  efforts  at  reforming  any  old 
abuse,  by  means  of  newspaper-writing,  at  last  succeed,  (though 
the  world,  which  seldom  looks  very  deeply,  is  apt  to  give  the 
credit  to  a  later  agent,  and  heeds  not  where  the  motion  was  given 
and  what  kept  it  up,)  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  in  this  sub- 
ject of  poor  pay  for  females'  work,  good  results  would  sooner 
or  later  follow  from  the  faithful  adherence  of  the  press  to  an 
advocacy  of  "the  rights  of  women"  in  the  matter.2  Why, 
there  are  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  poor  girls  and  women  here- 
about— and  not  a  few  in  Brooklyn — who  suffer  the  most  shame- 
ful impositions  from  those  who  employ  them  to  work.  These 
girls  and  women  make  from  fifty  cents  (!)  to  two  dollars  per 
week — very  few  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  latter  sum,  how- 
ever. The  price  paid  for  making  one  of  those  heavy  stout  over- 
coats, such  as  our  firemen  wear,  is  but  fifty  cents,  at  the  highest 
— and  pantaloons  and  vests,  ("slop-work")  from  six  to  fifteen 
cents!  .  .  .  What  remedy  for  this  miserable  system,  we 
are  not  prepared  to  suggest;  but  the  first  thing  is  to  make  the 
public  aware  that  it  is  an  evil — and  that  it  sows  a  public  crop  of 
other  evils. 

1  From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  November  9,  1 846. 

Cf.  post,  I,  p.  233. 

*Cf.  infra,  pp.  116-117.  In  advocating  women's  rights,  industrial  as  well  as  political, 
Whitman  was  an  early  champion  of  th«  sex  though  Emerson  and  Greeley  had  both 
shown  the  way,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Transcendentalists  in  general. 


138    THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

THE  OLD  BLACK  WIDOW1 

(a  narrative  the  truth  of  whose  essentials  is  vouched 
for  by  the  editor  of  this  print.) 

Some  years  ago,  (and  not  many,  either)  an  aged  black  woman, 
a  widow,  occupied  a  basement  in  one  of  the  streets  leading  down 
to  the  North  river,  in  New  York  city.  She  had  employment 
from  a  number  of  families  who  hired  her  at  intervals  to  cook, 
nurse,  and  wash  for  them;  and  in  this  way  she  gained  a  very 
decent  living.  If  we  remember  right,  the  old  creature  had  no 
child,  or  any  near  relation,  but  was  quite  alone  in  the  world, 
and  lived,  when  at  home,  in  the  most  solitary  manner.  She 
always  had  her  room  and  humble  furniture  as  clean  as  a  new 
glove,  and  was  remarkable  every  where  for  her  neatness,  agree- 
able ways,  and  good  humor — and  all  this  at  an  age  closely  bor- 
dering on  seventy.  Opposite  to  where  this  ancient  female  lived, 
was  a  row  of  stables  for  horses,  cabs,  private  vehicles  on  livery, 
and  such  like.  At  any  hour  of  the  day  and  evening,  groups  of 
hostlers  and  stout  stable  boys  were  working  or  lounging  about 
there — and  the  ears  of  the  passer-by  could  hardly  fail  to  hear 
joking  and  laughter,  and  often  coarse  oaths  and  indecent  ri- 
baldry. The  old  black  woman,  smoking  her  pipe  of  an  evening, 
at  her  door  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  suffered  considerable 
annoyance  from  their  swearing  and  obscenity.  She  was  a 
pious  woman,  not  merely  in  profession  but  practice,  and  faith- 
fully tried  to  worship  God,  and  walk  in  the  paths  of  duty.  For 
several  weeks  at  intervals  she  had  noticed  a  barefooted  young 
girl  of  twelve  or  thirteen  years,  strolling  about,  and  frequently 
stopping  at  the  stables.  This  girl  was  a  deaf  mute,2  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  wretched  intemperate  couple  in  the  neighbourhood, 
who  were  letting  her  grow  up  as  the  weeds  grow.  With  no  care 
and  guidance  for  her  young  steps,  she  had  before  her  the  darkest 
and  dreariest  of  prospects.  What  under  such  circumstances 
could  be  expected  of  her  future  years,  but  degradation,  misery, 
and  crime?  The  old  black  widow  had  many  anxious  thoughts 
about  this  little  girl,  and  shuddered  at  the  fate  which  seemed 
prepared  for  her.  She  at  last  determined  to  make  an  effort  in 
behalf  of  the  hapless  one.     She  had  heard  of  the  institutions 

1  From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  November  1 2,  1 846. 

'Whitman  wrote  another  tale  about  a  deaf  mute,  "Dumb  Kate,"  "Complete  Prose," 
PP-  370-37I- 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  139 

provided  for  the  deaf  and  dumb,  and  how  the  sealed  avenues 
of  the  senses  are  almost  opened  to  them  again  there.  Upon 
making  inquiry,  she  found  that  in  the  case  of  her  young  neigh- 
bor, the  payment  of  a  certain  sum  of  money,  (two  hundred 
dollars,  we  think  it  was,)  would  be  necessary,  preparatory  to 
her  admission  into  the  New  York  Institution.  Whether  any 
payment  was  required  after  this,  we  have  forgotten,  but  the 
sum  in  advance  was  indispensable.  The  old  woman  had  got 
quite  well  acquainted  with  the  child,  and  discovered  in  her  that 
quickness  and  acuteness  for  which  her  unfortunate  kind  are 
remarkable.  She  determined  to  save  her — to  turn  her  path  aside 
from  darkness  to  light. — Day  after  day  then,  and  night  after 
night,  whenever  her  work  would  permit,  went  forth  the  old 
woman,  with  papers  and  letters,  to  beg  subscriptions  from  the 
charitable,  for  that  most  holy  object.  Among  the  families 
where  she  was  known,  she  always  succeeded  in  getting  some- 
thing— sometimes  half  a  dollar,  sometimes  two — and  in  a  few 
instances  five,  and  even  ten  dollars.  But  where  she  was  a 
stranger,  she  rarely  received  any  answer  to  her  request  except  a 
rude  denial,  or  a  contemptuous  sneer. — Most  of  them  suspected 
her  story  to  be  a  fabrication — although  she  had  provided  her- 
self with  incontestible  proofs  of  its  truth,  which  she  always  car- 
ried with  her.  It  seemed  a  hopeless  effort,  and  yet  she  perse- 
vered— contributing  from  her  own  scanty  means  every  cent 
that  she  could  spare.  Need  we  say  that  Heaven  blessed  this 
poor  creature's  sacred  work — that  she  succeeded  in  getting  the 
requisite  sum,  and  that  the  girl  was  soon  afterward  placed  an 
inmate  of  the  asylum?  Whether  the  aged  widow  yet  lives  in 
her  basement,  and  what  has  happened  since  in  the  life  of  the 
girl,  we  know  not.  .  .  . — In  all  that  we  have  ever  heard 
or  read,  we  do  not  know  a  better  refutation  of  those  scowling 
dogmatists  who  resolve  all  the  actions  of  mankind  into  a  gross 
motive  of  pleasing  the  abstract  self. 


INCIDENTS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  WORLD-FAMED  MAN1 

"The  Auto-Biography  of  Goethe."  Truth  and  Poetry: 
from  My  Life.  From  the  German  of  Goethe,  by  Parke  Godwin. 
Two  vols.     Wiley  &  Putnam,  161  Broadway,  N.  Y. 

iFrom  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  November  19, 1846. 


i4o  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

What  a  prodigious  gain  would  accrue  to  the  world,  if  men 
who  write  well  would  as  much  think  of  writing  life,  as  they 
(most  of  them)  think  it  necessary  to  write  one  of  the  million 
things  evolved  from  life — Learning!  What  a  gain  it  would  be, 
if  we  could  forego  some  of  the  heavy  tomes,  the  fruit  of  an  age 
of  toil  and  scientific  study,  for  the  simple  easy  truthful  narrative 
of  the  existence  and  experience  of  a  man  of  genius, — how  his 
mind  unfolded  in  his  earliest  years — the  impressions  things 
made  upon  him — how  and  where  and  when  the  religious  senti- 
ment dawned  in  him — what  he  thought  of  God  before  he  was 
inoculated  with  books'  ideas — the  developement  of  his  soul — 
when  he  first  loved — the  way  circumstance  imbued  his  nature, 
and  did  him  good,  or  worked  him  ill — with  all  the  long  train 
of  occurrences,  adventures,  mental  processes,  exercises  within, 
and  trials  without,  which  go  to  make  up  the  man — for  character 
is  the  man,  after  all.  Such  a  work,  fully  and  faithfully  per- 
formed, would  be  a  rare  treasure!  ....  This  Life  of 
Goethe — this  famous  Wahrheit  una1  Bichtung — seems  shaped 
with  the  intention  of  rendering  a  history  of  soul  and  body's 
growth,  such  as  alluded  to.  It  is  not  full  enough,  perhaps; 
but  it  is  a  real  history,  and  no  man  but  will  learn  much  in  the 
reading  of  it.  It  (like  Shakspere's  writing)  does  not  bear 
every  now  and  then  the  inscription,  "See  the  moral  of  this!" 
or  "Behold  how  vice  is  punished!"  It  goes  right  on,  stating 
what  it  has  to  say,  exuberant  in  its  seeds  of  reflection  and  infer- 
ence— though  it  doesn't  reflect  or  draw  the  inference. 

Cf.  infra,  p.  132. 

This  book  review  is  selected  for  presentation  at  length  not  only  because  it  is  a  fair 
sample  of  Whiman's  reviewing  (see  infra,  pp.  125-126)  but  also  because  it  throws  light 
upon  the  germination  of  the  literary  ideals  which,  during  the  next  year,  began  to  shape 
some  parts  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  (see  post,  II,  p.  63,  note).  A  kinship  between  Whit- 
man and  Goethe  has  more  than  once  been  noted,  but  apparently  it  has  not  been  known 
that  Whitman  was  acquainted  with  the  German  writer  before  beginning  his  own  book. 
In  Doctor  Bucke's  "Notes  and  Fragments"  (privately  printed,  1899, pp.  105-106)  is  given 
Whitman's  critical  opinion  of  Goethe,  together  with  copious  notes  concerning  the  life 
of  the  latter,  dated  January,  1856.  In  this,  however,  he  confesses  his  inadequate 
reading  of  Goethe.  It  may  have  been  that  Goethe's  "Autobiography,"  in  the  American 
translation  (Whitman  did  not  know  German),  introduced  him  to  the  great  German  ro- 
manticist. In  any  case,  the  present  book  review  shows  that  Whitman  was  longing  for 
a  biographical  work — whether  in  prose  or  verse  seemed  to  matter  little — which  should 
express  the  entire  man  very  much  as  his  own  "Leaves  of  Grass"  set  out  to  do.  Cf. 
the  following  bit  of  off-hand  criticism  reported  in  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden" 
(III,  p.  159):  "Goethe  impresses  me  as  above  all  to  stand  for  essential  literature,  art,  life 
— to  argue  the  importance  of  centering  life  in  self — in  perfect  persons — perfect  you,  me: 
to  force  the  real  into  the  abstract  ideal:  to  make  himself,  Goethe,  the  supremest  example 
of  personal  identity:  everything  making  for  it:  in  us,  in  Goethe:  every  man  repeating  the 
same  experience." 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  i4i 

Mr.  Parke  Godwin,  the  translator,  (assisted),  deserves  more 
than  ordinary  thanks  for  this  labor — one  long  needed,  for  we 
are  told  that  there  has  been  hitherto  but  a  miserable  imperfect 
elliptical  translation,  published  in  London  some  time  since, 
and  now  out  of  print.  John  Henry  Hopkins,  jr.,  of  Vermont 
owns  also  a  hand  in  the  new  translation — he  having  rendered 
the  second  volume.  .  .  The  print,  paper,  &c.  are  good.  We 
notice  one  or  two  errors,  however,  in  the  text;  one,  for  instance, 
on  the  1 8th  page  of  volume  ist,  which  makes  the  great  earth- 
quake in  Lisbon  happen  in  1775.     It  should  be  1755. 

Our  readers  will  need  no  apology  from  us  for  our  trans- 
ferring one  or  two  extracts  from  this  Auto-Biography  to  our 
columns. 

[Then  are  introduced  four  lengthy  extracts. — Editor.] 


MATTERS  WHICH  WERE  SEEN  AND  DONE  IN  AN 
AFTERNOON  RAMBLE1 

The  luscious  air  (mellow  as  a  full-ripe  peach)  and  the  cloud- 
less skies,  forbade  any  return  that  day  (17th)  to  indoor  avoca- 
tions.— Merely  to  live,  (out  of  doors)  amid  such  fresh  and  wel- 
come beauty,  was  enough; — but  to  "go  to  work"  immediately 
after  tasting  it,  was  too  much!  .  .  .  Who  says  Brooklyn 
is  not  a  growing  place?  He  surely  cannot  have  walked  lately, 
as  we  then  walked,  through  East  Brooklyn  and  South  Brooklyn. 
At  this  present  writing  we  think  we  could  go  and  count  full  three 
hundred  houses  in  process  of  erection  in  those  two  parts  of  our 
city!  In  Atlantic  street  there  are  several  rows  of  noble  build- 
ings, and  in  quite  every  cross  street  can  be  heard  the  sound  of 
carpenters'  hammers  and  masons'  trowels.  .  .  .  And  by 
the  bye,  speaking  of  East  Brooklyn,  we  wonder  that  some  public- 
spirited  personage  or  personages  do  not  set  on  foot  measures  for 
the  construction  of  Churches  thereabout,  or  even  in  the  wide 
scope  between  it  and  Fulton  street — for  they  are  much  needed 
there.  There  is,  it  is  true,  the  New  Methodist  now  being  built 
in  Bridge  street,  and  a  small  but  neat  wooden  Church  (on  specu- 
lation) in  Prince  street;  but  the  exuberant  population  there  re- 
quires many  and  large  houses  of  worship.  No  person  who 
walks  often  through  that  part  of  our  city,  and  beholds  the  im- 
mense proportion  of  young  people  resident  in  it,  but  will  surely 

1From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  November  19, 1846. 


i42  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

agree  with  us.  West  of  Fulton  street  is  well  supplied  with  the 
most  magnificent  Churches,  and  this  makes  the  paucity  on  the 
other  side  more  apparent. 

Crossing  to  N.  Y.  at  the  South  Ferry,  (what  mortal  could 
wish  a  better-managed  mode  of  passage  than  appertains  to  our 
Brooklyn  ferries?)  we  lingered  awhile  on  the  Battery — that  be- 
loved spot1 — and  reflected  whether  the  new  Washington  Park, 
on  the  heights  of  Fort  Greene,2  would  not  be  quite  as  noble  a 
promenade,  even  without  the  water-front:  it  would  have  a  far 
more  magnificent  water-view,  you  know.  .  .  .  Stores,  and 
very  handsome  ones,  we  observed,  are  encroaching  on  the  south 
side  of  Broadway,  from  the  Bowling  Green  up  to  the  site  of  the 
old  Waverley  House — the  stretch  made  vacant  by  the  fire  of 
last  summer.  The  last  gaps  in  the  line  are  now  being  filled  up, 
and  the  New  Year's  callers  on  that  route  will  behold  not  a  single 
evidence  of  the  ruin  made  by  the  "devouring  element"  so 
short  a  while  since.  .  .  .  What  a  fascinating  chaos  is 
Broadway,  of  a  pleasant  sunny  time!  We  know  it  is  all,  (or 
most  of  it,)  "  fol-de-rol,"  but  still  there  is  a  pleasure  in  walking 
up  and  down  there  awhile,  and  looking  at  the  beautiful  ladies, 
the  bustle,  the  show,  the  glitter,  and  even  the  gaudiness.  But 
alas!  what  a  prodigious  amount  of  means  and  time  might  be 
much  better  and  more  profitably  employed  than  as  they  are 
there! 

After  giving  a  passing  glance  in  the  rooms  of  the  Art  Union, 
(a  perpetual  free  exhibition  of  Paintings,  Broadway,  near  Pearl 
St.,  which  we  advise  our  Brooklyn  folk  to  visit  often:  it  will 
cost  them  nothing,  and  there  are  always  good  things  there,)  we 
ascended  the  wide  winding  stair-case  of  the  Society  Library,  to 
the  room  where  Brown  s  Statuary  is  exhibiting.  Mr.  B.  is  a 
young  American,  and  deserves  well;  for  he  shows  genius  and 
industry.  We  particularly  liked  two  marble  Bas  Reliefs — one  of 
the  Pleiades,  and  another  of  the  Hyades.  (These  latter  "weep- 
ing sisters,"  by  the  by,  seem  lately  to  have  been  in  the  ascendant.) 
An  Adonis,  quite  the  size  of  life,  would  perhaps  be  considered  the 
most  attractive  "feature"  of  the  exhibition.  Though  a  noble 
statue,  it  did  not,  however,  come  up  to  our  (perhaps  too  lifted) 

1  Cf.  infra,  pp.  90-92. 

*  Whitman  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  urge  the  preservation  of  the  site  of  old  Fort 
Greene  as  a  public  park.  Though  other  newspapers  in  Brooklyn  were  interested  in  the 
same  enterprise,  none  were  more  zealous  in  the  cause  than  the  Eagle,  so  that  Whitman's 
pride  in  the  successful  results  of  the  journalistic  campaign  was  justified  (see  the  letter 
from  Whitman  in  Stephen  M.  Ostrander's  "History  of  Brooklyn,"  1894,  II,  p.  89). 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  143 

ideas  of  "Myrrha's  immortal  son".  .  .  .  Just  crossing 
Broadway,  (to  341)  our  taste  for  the  Ideal — for  the  exquisite 
in  form,  the  gracefully  quaint,  and  the  chastely  gorgeous — ex- 
perienced a  sort  of  "new  development"  in  looking  over  Banks' 's 
new  stock  and  saloon;  for  surely  no  mortal  man,  (except  the 
proprietor  himself,  who  seems  to  devote  his  life  enthusiastically 
to  it,)  could  ferret  out,  or  "get  up"  so  many  superb  things, 
in  a  super-superb  style!  Vases  that  would  add  wonder  to  the 
palaces  of  the  Persian  Shas — glitteringly  grotesque  mantel- 
ornaments — tiara  brilliants  that  princesses  might  wear — brace- 
lets, rings,  and  a  maze  of  etc.! — such  are  but  a  portion  of  the 
star-like  things  that  are  collected  here!  True  Democrat  as  we 
are,  we  did  like  to  look  on  shapes  and  things  of  beauty,  ever. 

— The  deafening  flourish  of  trumpets  and  roll  of  drums  ushered 
up  the  curtain  of  the  Park  theatre,  just  as  we  entered  and  took 
a  seat  amid  a  well-filled  house,  to  see  a  counterfeit  presentment 
of  "The  Troublesome  Raigne  of  John,  King  of  England,"  (which 
is  probably  more  Marlowe's  play  than  Shakspere's  after  all.) 
And  there  sat  the  monarch  so  "infirm  of  purpose,"  on  his  throne 
— surrounded  by  bold  barons,  and  all  the  things  of  the  Feudal 
age!  Whatever  may  be  said  of  Mr.  Kean's  acting,  the  public 
owe  him  something  for  the  perfection  of  costume,  scenery, 
properties,  &c.  in  the  plays  produced  under  his  control.  It  is 
not  to  be  denied  that  a  New  York  audience  never  before  had 
anything  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  truthfulness  and  appro- 
priateness which  mark  the  present  representation  of  King  John. 
That  shows  something  like  a  court,  and  the  movements  of 
royalty,  and  of  armies.  There  are  scores  of  knights  and  men- 
at-arms,  that  bring  to  one's  mind  the  stamps  on  old  English 
coins,  the  pictures  and  effigies  in  old  Abbeys,  and  such  like. 
And  instead  of  the  ludicrous  stiffness  that  usually  prevails  on 
the  stage,  in  such  scenes,  there  are  colloquial  groupings,  and  all 
the  adjuncts,  as  near  as  possible,  of  reality.  .  .  .  But  what 
shall  we  say  of  Mrs.  Kean's  Queen  Constance?  a  piece  of  artistic 
work  which  we  shall  not  soon  forget.  We  are  not  given  to  super- 
latives in  these  things — but  if  there  be  any  perfection  in  acting, 
Mrs.  K.  evinces  it  in  her  portrayal  of  that  widowed  and  crown- 
less  Queen!  From  first  to  last  it  was  a  continuous  stretch  of 
unsurpassed  by-play  and  fine  elocution.  The  harrowing  close 
of  the  third  act  was  marked  by  the  tears  of  half  the  audience, 
men  as  well  as  women.  The  character  of  Constance  is  such  as 
Mrs.  Kean  can  (and  almost  she  only)  truly  represent — the  fol- 


i44  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

lowing  bit  of  delivery,  as  she  gave  it,  was  perhaps  never  better 
done,  on  the  stage.  It  is  the  rejoinder  she  gives  to  the  remon- 
strances of  Cardinal  Pandulph  and  King  Philip,  against  her  over- 
whelming grief  for  the  loss  of  her  little  son,  Prince  Arthur,  who 
was  taken  prisoner  by  his  usurping  uncle: 

Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form; 
Then  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 
Fare  you  well:  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I, 
I  could  give  better  comfort  than  you  do — 
I  will  not  keep  this  form  upon  my  head, 
When  there  is  such  disorder  in  my  wit. 
Oh,  lord!  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  in  the  world, 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrow's  cure! 

We  must  confess,  though  we  are  no  admirer  of  Mr.  Kean, 
that  he,  in  King  John,  left  little  to  be  asked  for  more,  by  the 
reasonable  spectator.  His  elocution  was  good,  and  his  air  and 
bearing  such  as  became  royalty.  The  two  last  acts,  which  de- 
pend quite  altogether  upon  him,  were  deeply  interesting;  and 
we  think  the  common  cant  hitherto  about  the  play,  that  it 
"lacks  dramatic  effect,"  must  pretty  effectually  get  its  quietus, 
now.  The  play  really  is  full  of  dramatic  interest — and  not  the 
least  of  it  flows  from  its  historical  associations.  Only  the  mor- 
bid appetite  for  unnatural  strained  effect  can  complain  of  want 
of  interest  in  such  a  play  as  King  John.  .  .  .  Mr.  Vander- 
hoofs  Faulconbridge  was  acting  of  the  liveliest,  heartiest,  most 
refreshing  sort,  and  gave  a  light  grace  to  the  massiveness  of 
the  rest.  The  young  creature  who  played  Arthur  took  the 
sympathies  of  the  whole  house;  she  played  with  quiet,  grace, 
and  modesty. 


EDUCATION— SCHOOLS,  Etc.1 

In  our  prevalent  system  of  Common  School  Instruction, 
there  is  far  too  much  of  mere  forms  and  words.  Boys  and  girls 
learn  "lessons"  in  books,  pat  enough  to  the  tongue,  but  vacant 

»iFrom  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  November  23,  1846. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  145 

to  the  brain.  Many  wearisome  hours  are  passed  in  getting  this 
rote,  which  is  almost  useless,  while  the  proper  parts  of  educa- 
tion have  been  left  unattended  to.  Of  what  use  is  it,  for  instance, 
that  a  boy  knows  the  technical  definition  of  a  promontory  or  a 
gulf — and  can  bound  states,  as  they  are  bounded  in  the  book, 
north,  and  east,  and  south,  and  west,  when  he  has  no  practical 
idea  of  the  situation  and  direction  of  countries,  and  of  the  earth's 
different  parts?  Of  what  use  is  it  that  he  can  recite  the  rules  of 
grammar,  and  speak  off  all  its  book  terms,  when  he  does  not 
apply  it  in  his  conversation,  knows  not  a  tittle  of  the  meaning  of 
what  he  says,  and  is  hourly  committing  the  grossest  violations 
of  it  ?  Of  what  use  is  it  to  a  child  that  he  has  "  ciphered  through 
the  book,"  to  use  the  common  phrase,  when  he  cannot  apply 
the  various  rules  to  the  transactions  of  business,  and  is  puzzled 
by  a  little  simple  sum  perhaps  in  the  very  elementary  parts  of 
arithmetic  ? 

Unless  what  is  taught  in  a  school  be  understood,  and  has  some 
greater  value  than  merely  a  knowledge  of  the  words  which  con- 
vey it,  it  is  all  a  sham.  In  schools  (as  too  much  in  religion) 
many  people  have  been  too  long  accustomed  to  look  at  the  mere 
form — the  outward  circumstance — without  attending  to  the 
reality.  It  matters  little  that  a  teacher  preserves  the  most 
admirable  discipline — performs  all  the  time-honored  floggings 
and  thumpings  and  cuffings1 — and  goes  through  with  all  the  old- 
established  ceremonies  of  school-teaching — unless  the  pupils 
are  aided  in  forming  sharp,  intelligent  minds — and  are  properly 
advanced  in  the  branches  they  may  be  pursuing.  Without  these 
follow,  his  education  is  a  mockery — a  make  believe.  The 
forms  of  a  school  are  of  small  account,  except  as  they  contribute 
to  the  main  object — improvement. 

The  proper  education  of  a  child  comprehends  a  great  deal  more 
than  is  generally  thought  of.  Sending  him  to  school,  and  learn- 
ing him  to  read  and  write,  is  not  educating  him.  That  brings 
into  play  but  a  small  part  of  his  powers.  A  proper  education 
unfolds  and  develops  every  faculty  in  its  just  proportions.  It 
commences  at  the  beginning,  and  leads  him  along  the  path  step 
by  step.  Its  aim  is  not  to  give  so  much  book-learning,  but  to 
polish  and  invigorate  the  mind — to  make  it  used  to  thinking  and 

1  Whitman  had  much  to  say  in  the  Eagle  against  flogging  school  children,  a  practice 
which  he  appears  to  have  avoided  as  a  school-teacher  himself.  He  wrote  one  of  his 
earliest  tales  on  the  theme,  "Death  in  a  School-Room"  ("Complete  Prose,"  pp.  336- 
34o). 


146  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

acting  for  itself,  and  to  imbue  it  with  a  love  for  knowledge.  It 
seeks  to  move  the  youthful  intellect  to  reason,  reflect  and  judge, 
and  exercise  its  curiosity  and  powers  of  thought.  True,  these 
powers,  this  reason  and  judgment  have  to  be  exercised  at  first  on 
childish  subjects — but  every  step  carries  him  further  and  further. 
What  was  even  at  first  not  difficult,  becomes  invaluable  as  an 
easy  habit.  And  it  is  astonishing  how  much  may  be  done  in 
this  way;  how  soon  a  child  acquires,  by  proper  training,  a  quick- 
ness of  perception  and  a  ready  facility  of  drawing  on  stores  of  its 
own,  that  put  to  the  blush  the  faculties  of  many,  even  of  mature 
age.  We  consider  it  a  great  thing  in  education  that  the  learner 
be  taught  to  rely  upon  himself.  The  best  teachers  do  not  pro- 
fess to  form  the  mind,  but  to  direct  it  in  such  a  manner — and  put 
such  tools  in  its  power — that  it  builds  up  itself.1  This  part  of 
education  is  far  more  worthy  of  attention,  than  the  acquiring 
of  a  certain  quantity  of  school  knowledge.  We  would  far  rather 
have  a  child  possessed  of  a  bright,  intelligent,  moderately  dis- 
ciplined mind,  joined  to  an  inquisitive  disposition,  with  very 
little  of  what  is  called  learning,  than  to  have  him  versed  in  all 
the  accomplishments  of  the  most  forward  of  his  age,  arithmetic, 
grammar,  Greek,  Latin,  and  French,  without  that  brightness  and 
intelligence. 


A  FACT-ROMANCE  OF  LONG  ISLAND2 

On  the  Huntington  south  shore  of  Long  Island  is  a  creek 
near  the  road  called  "Gunnetaug" — and  the  mouth  of  this 
creek,  emptying  into  the  bay,  is  reported  to  be  so  deep  that  no 
lines  have  ever  yet  sounded  its  bottom.  It  sometimes  goes 
by  the  name  of  "Drowning  Creek,"  which  was  given  to  it  by  a 
circumstance  that  we  will  relate.  It  is  a  universal  summer  cus- 
tom on  Long  Island  to  have  what  are  called  "Beach  parties:" 
that  is,  collections  of  people,  young  and  old,  each  bringing  a 
lot  of  provisions  and  drink,  and  who  sail  over  early  in  the  morn- 
ing to  the  beach  which  breaks  off  the  Atlantic  waves  from  our 
island's  "green  girt  shore,"  and  spend  the  day  there.  Many 
years  ago  such  a  party  went  over  from  Gunnetaug.  They 
formed  a  cheerful  and  healthy  set,  full  of  animal  spirits.  They 

iQf.post,  I,  pp.  148-149*  220-221;  II,  pp.  13-15. 
'From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle ,  December  16,  1846. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  147 

bathed  in  the  surf — danced — told  stories — ate  and  drank — 
amused  themselves  with  music,  plays,  games,  and  so  on — and 
ranged  upon  the  beach  in  search  of  the  eggs  of  the  sea-gull,  who 
lays  them  in  no  nest  except  the  warm  sand,  exposed  to  the  sun, 
which  makes  a  first  rate  natural  Eccallobeon.1  (I  have  some- 
times gathered  a  hundred  of  these  eggs  on  similar  excursions, 
in  an  hour:  they  are  palatable  and  about  half  the  size  of  hen's 
eggs.)  The  owner  of  the  boat  which  carried  the  party  over  the 
bay  was  a  young  farmer  who  had  his  sister  and  his  sweetheart 
on  board.  Towards  the  latter  part  of  the  afternoon,  they  set 
out  on  their  return — and  made  the  greater  haste,  as  a  thunder 
shower  seemed  to  be  gathering  overhead.  They  had  crossed 
the  bay,  and  were  just  entering  the  mouth  of  the  creek  we  have 
mentioned  when  the  storm  burst,  and  a  sudden  flaw  of  wind 
capsized  the  boat.  Most  Long-Islanders  are  good  swimmers; 
and  as  the  stream  was  but  a  few  yards  wide,  the  men  supported 
the  women  and  children  to  the  banks.  The  young  man,  the 
owner  of  the  boat,  grasped  his  sister  in  one  arm  and  struck  out 
for  the  shore  with  the  other.  When  he  was  within  a  rod  of  it, 
he  heard  a  slight  exclamation  from  the  upturned  boat,  and 
turning  his  head  saw  the  girl  he  loved  slip  into  the  water! 
Yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse,  he  shook  off  his  sister,  swam  back, 
dived,  and  clutching  the  sinking  one  by  her  hair  and  dress, 
brought  her  safely  to  the  shore.  Then  he  again  swam  back  for 
his  sister — and  for  many  long  and  dreadful  minutes,  beat  the 
dark  waters,  and  dived — but  beat  and  dived  in  vain.     The  girl 

drowned,  and  her  body  was  never  more  seen 

From  that  time  forth,  the  young  man's  character  was  changed. 
He  laughed  no  more,  and  never  again  engaged  in  any  of  the 
country  jollities.  He  married  his  sweetheart:  but  it  was  a  cold 
and  unfriendly  union — and  about  a  year  from  the  time  of  his 
sister's  drowning,  he  began  to  pine  and  droop.  He  had  no  dis- 
ease— at  least  none  that  is  treated  of  in  medical  works;  but  his 
heart  withered  away,  as  it  were.  In  dreams,  the  chill'  of  his 
sister's  dripping  hair  was  against  his  cheek — and  he  would 
awake  with  a  cry  of  pain.  Moping  and  sinking  thus,  he  gradu- 
ally grew  weaker  and  weaker,  and  at  last  died.  .  .  .  The 
story  is  yet  told  among  the  country  people,  thereabouts,  and 
often  when  sailing  out  of  the  creek,  I  have  looked  on  the  spot 
where  the  poor  girl  sank,  and  the  shore  where  the  rescued  one 
escaped. 

1 A  kind  of  incubator. 


148  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 


A  FEW  WORDS  TO  THE  YOUNG  MEN  OF  BROOKLYN1 

It  deserves  to  be  remembered  that  education  is  not  a  thing 
for  schools,  or  children  merely.  The  acquirement  of  knowledge 
concerns  those  who  are  grown,  or  nearly  grown,  men  more  than 
children.  Let  no  one  suppose  that  when  a  person  becomes 
eighteen  or  twenty  or  thirty  years  old,  he  is  past  the  season  for 
learning.  Some  of  the  wisest  and  most  celebrated  men,  whose 
names  adorn  the  page  of  history,  educated  themselves  after 
they  had  lost  the  season  of  youth.  They  began,  many  of  them, 
without  even  a  knowledge  of  reading  and  writing,  and  raised 
themselves  by  their  industry  and  study  to  high  eminences. 
The  biographies  of  men  of  science  present  accounts  of  people 
born  and  nurtured  amid  the  deepest  poverty  and  toil,  with 
hardly  money  enough  to  buy  a  sheet  of  paper  or  the  commonest 
book — who  yet,  by  a  resolute  application  and  improving  of  odd 
hours,  acquired  learning  far  beyond  others  who  were  living 
in  comfort  and  enjoying  all  the  advantages  of  schools.  .  .  . 
No  period  is  too  late  to  attend  to  the  improvement  of  the  mind. 
No  station  has  cares  so  numerous,  or  disadvantages  so  great, 
but  that  the  one  who  fills  it  may  cultivate  his  intellect.  There 
have  been  young  men — young  men  whose  lot  it  was  to  labor 
hard,  and  to  possess  but  few  aids  in  acquiring  what  they  sought 
— and  these  same  persons,  thirsting  for  knowledge,  and  feeling 
how  noble  a  thing  it  is  to  raise  onesself  above  the  level  of  ignor- 
ance, and  equality  with  the  low  and  debased,  resolutely  set 
themselves  to  work  in  studying — and  attained  distinction  and 
fame  in  that  sphere.  And  more  than  this:  not  only  have  pov- 
erty and  suffering  and  weakness  been  overcome  by  those  bent 
on  advancing,  but  even  blindness  and  deafness  which  seem  to 
present  unsurmountable  obstacles,  have  not  been  able  to  stop 
the  exertions  of  the  knowledge-seeking  spirit.  Some  of  the 
greatest  scholars  have  labored  under  these  afflictions,  and  have 
surmounted  them.  ...  To  those  who  are  just  entering 
upon  manhood,  the  paths  of  science  present  pleasures  of  the 
most  alluring  kind.  If  the  young  men  of  Brooklyn,  instead  of 
spending  so  many  hours  idling  in  bar-rooms,2  and  places  of  vapid, 
irrational  un-amusement,  were  to  occupy  that  time  in  improving 

iFrom  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  December  17,  1846. 
Cf.  infray  pp.  144-146;  post,  I,  pp.  220-221,  II,  pp.  13-15. 

2Cf.  "Franklin  Evans,"  passim.,  and  the  sub-title  of  "Sketches  of  the  Sidewalks  and 
Levees,"  post,  I,  p.  199;  also  p.  193. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  149 

themselves  in  knowledge,  happy  would  it  be  for  them,  and  the 
city  too!  If,  instead  of  engaging  in  scenes,  associating  with 
companions,  and  haunting  places,  that  lead  them  to  become 
fond  of  gambling,  that  meanest  and  most  debasing  of  vices — 
or  of  intemperance,  that  dreadful  canker  that  cuts  off  the  fair- 
est flowers  and  the  finest  fruits  in  the  human  garden,  they  would 
but  covet  the  far  higher  and  the  far  purer  pleasures  of  literature, 
half  the  misery  and  guilt  that  generally  afflict  men  would  be 
precluded  them. 

"IMPORTANT  ANNOUNCEMENT"1 

The  Brooklyn  Eagle  wishes  everybody  in  general,  and  some 
persons  in  particular,  to  understand  that  it  considers  its  pres- 
ence at  any  public  place — at  any  place,  where  it  goes  in  its 
capacity  as  the  B.  E. — to  be  a  special  favor,  a  thing  for  the 
place  and  persons  visited  to  show  themselves  thankful  for,  and 
to  bless  their  stars  for.  As  to  the  "courtesy"  of  gratuitous 
tickets,  little  gifts,  (to  be  noticed  in  the  paper,  which  notice 
brings  more  good  to  them  than  ten  times  the  value  of  said  gifts,) 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  long  custom  has  quite  staled  us  to  the 
delicious  privilege.  The  Eagle  will  always  like  to  go  among  its 
friends — will  always  like  to  be  generous  in  the  bestowal  of  its 
favors — but  it  must  be  with  the  clear  understanding  that  no 
obligation  is  conferred  upon  it.  .  .  .  These  words  are  said 
in  complete  good  nature — and  without  any  special  application — ■ 
but  for  "all  future  time."  Moreover,  when  the  Eagle's  presence 
at  a  given  place  is  wished  for,  it  must  be  solicited  by  the  polite 
means  of  special  invitation,  accompanied  by  ample  "cards  of 
admission,"  &c;  it  not  being  in  the  range  of  human  possibilities 
or  condescensions  for  the  E.  to  explain  at  the  doors  of  places 
that  it  is  the  E. 

AN  INCIDENT  ON  LONG  ISLAND  FORTY  YEARS  AGO2 

When  my  mother  was  a  girl,  the  house  where  her  parents  and 
their  family  lived  was  in  a  gloomy  wood,  out  of  the  way  from 

*From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  December  22,  1846. 

Whitman  attempted  to  live  up  to  the  high  conception  of  the  function  of  the  news- 
paper editor  outlined  in  "Ourselves  and  the  Eagle,"  {infra,  pp.  114-117);  and  in  this 
characteristic  bit  of  straight  talk  to  offending  readers  he  seeks  (without  complete  suc- 
cess) to  maintain  a  proportionate  dignity. 

'From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  December  24, 1846. 


150  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

any  village  or  thick  settlement.1  One  August  morning  my 
grandfather  had  some  business  a  number  of  miles  from  home, 
and  he  put  a  saddle  on  the  back  of  his  favorite  horse,  "Dandy," 
(a  creature  he  loved  next  to  his  wife  and  children,)  and  rode  away 
to  attend  to  it.  When  nightfall  came  and  my  grandfather  did 
not  return,  my  grandmother  began  to  feel  a  little  uneasy.  As 
the  night  advanced,  she  and  her  daughter  sitting  up  impatient 
for  the  return  of  the  absent  husband  and  father,  a  terrible 
storm  came,  in  the  middle  of  which  their  ears  joyed  to  hear  the 
well-known  clatter  of  Dandy's  hoofs.  My  grandmother  sprang 
to  the  door,  but  upon  opening  it,  she  almost  fainted  into  my 
mother's  arms;  for  there  stood  Dandy,  bridled  and  saddled,  but 
no  signs  of  my  grandfather.  My  mother  stepped  out  and  found 
that  the  bridle  was  broken,  and  the  saddle  soaked  with  rain  and 
covered  with  mud.  They  returned  sick  at  heart  into  the 
house.  ...  It  was  just  after  midnight,  and  the  storm 
was  passing  off,  when  in  the  dreary  stillness  of  their  sleepless 
watch,  they  heard  something  in  the  room  adjoining  (the  "spare 
room,")  which  redoubled  their  terror.  They  heard  the  slow 
heavy  footfalls  of  a  man  walking.  Tramp!  tramp!  tramp!  it 
went — three  steps  solemnly  and  deliberately,  and  then  all  was 
hushed  again.  By  any  who  in  the  middle  of  the  night  have  had 
the  chill  of  a  vague  unknown  horror  creep  into  their  very 
souls,  it  can  well  be  imagined  how  they  passed  the  time  now. 
My  mother  sprang  to  the  door,  and  turned  the  key,  and  spoke 
what  words  of  cheer  she  could  force  through  her  lips,  to  the  ears 
of  her  terrified  parent.  The  dark  hours  crept  slowly  on,  and 
at  last  a  little  tinge  of  day-light  was  seen  through  the  eastern 
windows.  Almost  simultaneously  with  it,  a  bluff  voice  was 
heard  some  distance  off,  and  the  quick  dull  beat  of  a  horse  gal- 
loping along  a  soft  wet  road.  That  bluff  merry  halloo  came  to 
the  pallid  and  exhausted  females  like  a  cheer  from  a  passsing 
ship  to  starving  mariners  on  a  wreck  at  sea.  My  grandmother 
opened  the  door  this  time  to  behold  the  red  laughing  face  of  her 
husband,  and  to  hear  him  tell  how,  when,  after  the  storm  was 
over  and  he  went  to  look  for  Dandy,  whom  he  had  fastened 
under  a  shed,  he  discovered  that  the  skittish  creature  had 
broken  his  fastening  and  run  away  home — and  how  he  could  not 
get  another  horse  for  love  or  money,  at  that  hour — and  how 
he   was   fain   forced    to   stop   until   nearly   daylight.     .     .     . 

»This  homestead  was  near  Cold  Spring,  Long  Island.    Whitman  has  described  it  in 
"Complete  Prose,"  pp.  5-6. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  151 

Then  told  my  grandmother  her  story — how  she  had  heard 
heavy  footfalls  in  the  parlor — whereat  my  grandfather  laughed, 
and  walked  to  the  door  between  the  rooms,  and  unlocked  it, 
and  saw  nothing  but  darkness;  for  the  shutters  were  closed,  and 
it  was  yet  quite  a  while  to  sunrise.  My  mother  and  grand- 
mother followed  timidly,  though  they  now  began  to  feel  a  little 
ashamed.  My  grandfather  threw  open  the  shutters  of  one  win- 
dow, and  his  wife  those  of  the  other.  Then  with  one  sweep  of 
their  eyes  round  the  room,  they  paused  a  moment — after  which 
such  a  guffaw  of  laughter  came  from  the  husband's  capacious 
mouth,  that  Dandy  away  up  in  the  barnyard  sent  back  an 
answering  neigh  in  recognition! 

Three  or  four  days  previously,  my  mother  had  broken  off 
from  a  peach  tree  in  the  garden  a  branch  uncommonly  full  of 
fruit  of  a  remarkable  beauty  and  ripeness.  She  brought  it  in, 
and  stuck  it  amid  the  flowers  and  other  simple  ornaments  on 
the  high  shelf  over  the  parlor  fire-place.  The  night  before, 
while  the  mother  and  daughter  were  watching,  three  of  the 
peaches,  over-full  in  their  ripeness,  had  dropped,  one  after  the 
other,  on  the  floor,  and  my  mother's  and  grandmother's  terri- 
fied imaginations  had  converted  the  harmless  fruit  into  cowhide 
heels!  Here  was  the  mystery — and  there  lay  the  beautiful 
peaches,  which  my  grandfather  laughed  at  so  convulsively 
that  my  provoked  grandmother,  after  laughing  a  while  too, 
picked  them  up,  and  half-jokingly  and  half-seriously  thrust 
them  so  far  into  the  open  jaws  of  her  husband  that  he  was  nigh 
to  have  been  choked  indeed. 


THE  WEST1 

Radical,  true,  far-scoped,  and  thorough-going  Democracy 
may  expect,  (and  such  expecting  will  be  realized,)  great  things 
from  the  West!  The  hardy  denizens  of  those  regions,  where 
common  wants  and  the  cheapness  of  the  land  level  conventional- 
ism, (that  poison  to  the  Democratic  vitality,)  begin  at  the  roots 
of  things — at  first  principles — and  scorn  the  doctrines  founded 
on  mere  precedent  and  imitation.  .  .  .  There  is  something 
refreshing  even  in  the  extremes,  the  faults,  of  Western  character. 
Neither  need  the  political  or  social  fabric  expect  half  as  much 
harm  from  those  untutored  impulses,  as  from  the  staled  and 

1  From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle  >  December  26, 1846. 


152  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

artificialized  influence  which  enters  too  much  into  politics  amid 
richer  (not  really  richer,  either)  and  older-settled  sections.1 


WHY  DO  THE  THEATRES  LANGUISH?    AND   HOW 
SHALL  THE  AMERICAN  STAGE  BE  RESUSCITATED?2 

To  him  who  has  anything  like  a  proper  appreciation  of  the 
noble  scope  of  good  of  which  an  American  drama  might  be 
made  capable,  the  inquiry  now-a-days  must  often  suggest  itself. 
Is  it  not  amazing  that  we  have  not  before  this  thrown  off  our 
slavish  dependence  even  in  what  some  would  call  a  compara- 
tively small  matter  of  theatricals?  //  is  full  time. — English 
managers,  English  actors,  and  English  plays,  (we  say  it  in  no 
spirit  of  national  antipathy,  a  feeling  we  hate)  must  be  al- 
lowed to  die  among  us,  as  usurpers  of  our  stage.  The  drama  of 
this  country  can  be  the  mouth-piece  of  freedom,  refinement,  lib- 
eral philosophy,  beautiful  love  for  all  our  brethren,  polished 
manners  and  an  elevated  good  taste.  It  can  wield  potent  sway 
to  destroy  any  attempts  at  despotism — it  can  attack  and  hold 
up  to  scorn  bigotry,  fashionable  affectation,  avarice,  and  all 
unmanly  follies.  Youth  may  be  warned  by  its  fictitious  por- 
traits of  the  evil  of  unbridled  passions.  Wives  and  husbands 
may  see  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  a  long  needed 
lesson  of  the  absurdity  of  contentious  tempers,  and  of  those 
small  but  painful  disputes  that  embitter  domestic  life — con- 
trasted with  the  pleasant  excellence  of  a  forbearing,  forgiving 
and  affectionate  spirit.  The  son  or  daughter  just  entering  the 
door  of  dissipation  may  get  timely  view  of  that  inward  rotten- 
ness which  is  concealed  in  such  an  outside  of  splendor.  All — 
every  age  and  every  condition  in  life — may  with  profit  visit  a 
well  regulated  dramatic  establishment,  and  go  away  better  than 
when  they  came. — In  order  to  reap  such  by  no  means  difficult 
results,  the  whole  method  of  theatricals,  as  at  present  pursued 
in  New  York,  needs  first  to  be  overthrown. — The  great  and 
good  reformer  who  should  with  fearless  hand  attempt  the  task 
of  a  new  organization,  would  meet  with  many  difficulties  and 
much  ridicule;  but  that  he  would  succeed  is  in  every  respect 
probable,  if  he  possessed  ordinary  perseverance  and  discretion. 
New  York  City  is  the  only  spot  in  America  where  such  a  revolu- 

iC/.post,l,  p.  185. 

'From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  February  ia,  1847. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  153 

tion  could  be  attempted,  too.  With  all  our  servility,  to  for- 
eign fashion,  there  is  at  the  heart  of  the  intelligent  masses  there, 
a  lurking  propensity  toward  what  is  original,  and  has  a  stamped 
American  character  of  its  own.  In  N.  York,  also,  are  gathered 
together  a  number  of  men — literary  persons  and  others — who 
have  a  strong  desire  to  favor  anything  which  shall  extricate 
us  from  the  entangled  and  by  no  means  creditable  position  we 
already  hold  of  playing  second  fiddle  to  Europe.  These  persons 
— most  of  them  young  men,  enthusiastic,  democratic,  and  lib- 
eral in  their  feelings — are  daily  acquiring  a  greater  and  greater 
power.  And  after  all,  anything  appealing  to  the  national  heart 
of  the  people,  as  to  the  peculiar  and  favored  children  of  free- 
dom,— as  to  a  new  race  and  with  a  character  separate  from  the 
kingdoms  of  other  countries — would  meet  with  a  ready  re- 
sponse, and  strike  at  once  the  sympathies  of  all  the  true  men 
who  love  America,  their  native  or  chosen  land. 

As  to  the  particular  details  of  the  system  which  should  sup- 
plant theatricals  as  they  now  exist,  the  one  who  in  greatness  of 
purpose  conceives  the  effort  only  can  say.  That  effort  must 
be  made  by  a  man  or  woman  of  no  ordinary  talent — with  a  clear 
comprehensiveness  [comprehension?]  of  what  is  wanted — not  too 
great  a  desire  for  pecuniary  profit — little  respect  for  old  modes 
and  the  accustomed  usage  of  the  stage — an  American  inheart  and 
hand — and  liberal  in  disposition  to  provide  whatever  taste  and 
propriety  may  demand.1  The  assistance  of  writers  of  genius  will 
of  course  be  required.  The  whole  custom  of  paid  newspaper 
puffs  should  be  discarded,  entirely  and  utterly.2  There  is 
hardly  anything  more  contemptible,  and  indeed  unprofitable 
in  the  long  run,  than  this  same  plan  of  some  paid  personage 
writing  laudatory  notices  of  the  establishment  which  pays  him, 
and  then  sending  them  to  the  newspapers,  to  be  printed  as 
spontaneous  opinions  of  the  editors.  A  person  of  genius,  we  say 
again,  must  effect  this  reform — and  about  genius  there  is  some- 
thing capable  of  seeing  its  course  instinctively  for  itself,  which 
makes  trifling  hints,  details,  and  minor  particulars,  altogether 
impertinent.  Until  such  a  person  comes  forward,  and  works 
out  such  a  reform,  theatricals  in  this  country  will  continue  to 
languish,  and  theatres  be  generally  more  and  more  deserted  by 

»This  description  of  the  needed  reformer  fits  well  the  character  of  Whitman  himself, 
who  was,  it  must  be  remembered,  at  this  very  period  making  earnest  efforts  to  find  a 
new  instrument  of  song. 

*Cf.  infra,  p.  126,  and  post,  I,  p.  157. 


154  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

men  and  women  of  taste,  (rightfully  too)  as  has  been  the  case 
for  eight  or  ten  years  past. 


A  CITY  FIRE1 

Among  the  "sights"  of  New  York  city — (and  more  frightful 
duplicates  are  to  be  feared  in  Brooklyn,  unless  we  have  larger 
and  plentier  corporation  cisterns) — few  possess  a  vivider  interest 
for  the  time,  than  the  public  fires.  Alarming  as  they  are,  too, 
there  is  a  kind  of  hideous  pleasure  about  them.2  To  ask  a  deni- 
zen hereabouts,  if  he  have  ever  visited  a  fire,  would  of  course  be  a 
superfluous  question.  But  for  those  elsewhere,  (and  even  for 
our  own  citizens,)  it  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  have  a  de- 
scription of  one  of  these  sudden  and  sad  accidents  peculiar  to 
large  towns,  that  sometimes  plunge  happy  families  in  the  depth 
of  sorrow.  A  season  since,  there  was  a  fire  in  the  upper  part 
of  N.  Y.,  which  entirely  consumed  twelve  or  fourteen  houses 
inhabited  by  the  middling  class  of  people — and  partially  dam- 
aged several  others;  besides  frightening  every  family  for  many 
squares  around.  I  visited  the  place  just  after  dark,  when  the 
flames,  (thanks  to  the  Croton!)  had  begun  to  be  got  under. 
For  several  blocks  before  arriving  there,  all  passage  was  im- 
peded by  squads  of  people  hurrying  to  and  fro  with  rapid  and 
eager  pace.  Women  carrying  bundles — men  with  sweaty  and 
heated  faces — little  children,  many  of  them  weeping  and  sob- 
bing,— met  me  every  rod  or  two.  Then  there  were  stacks  of 
furniture  upon  the  sidewalk,  and  even  in  the  street.  Puddles  of 
water,  and  frequent  lengths  of  hose-pipe,  endangered  the  pedes- 
trian's safety;  and  the  hubbub,  the  trumpets  of  the  engine  fore- 
men, the  crackling  of  the  flames,  and  the  lamentations  of  those 
who  were  made  homeless — all  sounded  louder  and  louder  as  we 
approached,  and  at  last  grew  to  one  continued  and  deafening 
din!  It  was  a  horrible  yet  imposing  sight!  When  my  eyes 
caught  a  full  view  of  it,  I  beheld  a  space  of  several  lots,  all 
covered  with  smouldering  ruins,  mortar,  red  hot  embers,  piles 
of  smoking,  half-burnt  walls — a  sight  to  turn  a  man's  heart 
sick,  and  make  him  tremble  when  he  should  awake  sleepless  in 

•From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle ;  February  24,  1847. 

Cf.  "Song  of  Myself,"  Sec.  23,  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  1917, 1,  p.  81;  1855,  p.  39;  also  par/, 
II,  pp.  278-283. 

*Cf.  DeQuincey's  essay,  "Murder  Considered  as  one  of  the  Fine  Arts." 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  155 

the  silence  of  the  midnight.  I  stood  off  against  the  fire.  In 
every  direction  around,  except  the  opposite  front,  there  was  one 
compact  mass  of  human  flesh,  upon  the  stoops,  and  along  the 
sidewalks,  and  blocking  up  the  street,  even  to  the  edge  of  where 
the  flames  were  raging.  The  houses  at  the  right  hand  were  as 
yet  unharmed,  with  the  exception  of  blistered  paint,  and  win- 
dows cracked  by  the  strong  heat  over  the  way.  I  looked 
through  those  windows  to  the  rooms  within.  The  walls  were 
bare  and  naked;  no  furniture,  no  inhabitant,  no  sign  of  life — 
but  everything  bearing  the  stamp  of  desolation  and  flight.  .  .  . 
Every  now  and  then  would  come  a  suffocating  whirlwind  of 
smoke  and  burning  sparks.  Yet  I  stood  my  ground — I  and 
the  mass — gazing  at  the  wreck  and  the  brightness  before  us. 
The  red  flames  rolled  up  the  sides  of  a  house  newly  caught,  like 
the  forked  tongues  of  serpents  licking  their  prey. — It  was  terri- 
bly grand.  And  then  all  the  noise  would  cease,  and  for  a  min- 
ute or  two  nothing  would  break  in  upon  silence  except  the  hoarse 
voices  of  the  engineers  and  their  subordinates,  and  the  hissing 
and  dull  roaring  of  the  fire.  A  few  moments  more,  and  the  clat- 
ter and  the  clang  sounded  out  again  with  redoubled  loudness. 
The  most  pitiful  thing  in  the  whole  affair  was  the  sight  of  shiv- 
ering women,  their  eyes  red  with  tears,  and  many  of  them  dash- 
ing wildly  through  the  crowd,  in  search,  no  doubt,  of  some 
member  of  their  family,  who,  for  what  they  knew,  might  be 
burned  in  the  smoking  ruins  near  by.  Of  all  the  sorrowful 
spectacles  of  the  world,  perhaps  no  one  could  be  more  sorrowful 
than  such  as  this!  .  .  .  And  those  crumbled  ashes!  what 
comforts  were  entombed  there-^-what  memories  of  affection 
and  brotherhood — what  preparation,  never  to  be  consum- 
mated— what  hopes,  never  to  see  their  own  fruition — fell  down 
as  the  walls  fell  down,  and  were  crushed  as  they  were  crushed! 
But  twelve  hours  before,  the  sun  rose  pleasantly;  and  all  prom- 
ised fair.  The  most  distant  idea  of  this  misery,  it  entered  into 
the  brain  of  no  man  to  conceive.  Now,  what  a  change !  People 
who  commenced  the  day  with  comfort  before  them,  closed  it 
penniless.  Those  who  had  a  house  to  shelter  them  at  sunrise, 
at  sunset  owned  no  pillow  whereon  to  lay  their  heads.  Wives 
and  husbands  who  parted  in  the  morning  with  jocund  words, 
met  at  night  to  mingle  their  tears  together,  and  to  grieve  over 
blighted  prospects.  On  the  minds  of  many  there,  doubtless, 
these  and  similar  reflections  forced  themselves.  I  saw  it  in  the 
sombre  countenances  of  the  spectators,  and  heard  it  in  their 


156  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

conversation  one  to  another.  .  .  .  And  so,  elbowing  and 
pushing  for  rods  through  the  crowd,  one  at  last  made  out  to 
get  where  the  air  was  less  hot  and  stifling,  and  the  press  of 
people  less  intense. 


WHAT  AN  IDEA!1 

The  N.  Y.  Sun  (24th,)  says,  in  an  article  against  the  unity  of 
the  United  States  as  one  government:  "The  liberty  of  the  coun- 
try is  centered  in  the  independence  of  the  states,  and  with  a  good 
understanding  with  each  other  a  general  government  might  be 
dispensed  with.  Our  government  is  a  union  of  free  states,  and 
not  a  consolidation  of  states. "...  Our  government,  for 
certain  purposes,  is  a  "consolidation."  The  wisdom  of  that 
principle  is  proved  in  the  past  and  present;  but  in  the  local 
matters  of  the  states,  this  consolidation  does  not  give  congress 
the  right  to  interfere. — Perhaps  no  human  institution — from 
which  so  much  clashing  was  expected — has  ever  turned  out 
better,  than  the  "separate  independence"  of  the  federal  and 
state  governments.  With  one  exception,  (and  even  that,  in  its 
result,  only  proves  the  sanatory  powers  of  the  consolidation,) 
they  have  never  jarred.  Each  has  its  sphere  apart  from  the 
other — and  each  keeps  in  its  sphere. 

But  the  worst  of  such  insidious  articles  as  the  Sun's  is  that 
they  depress  the  idea  of  the  sacredness  of  the  bond  of  union  of 
these  states.  That  bond  is  the  foundation  of  incomparably  the 
highest  political  blessings  enjoyed  in  the  world!  And  the  posi- 
tion of  things  at  present  demands  that  its  sacredness  should  be 
recognized  by  every  and  all  American  citizens — however  they 
may  differ  on  points  of  doctrine  or  abstract  rights. 


DRAMATIC  AFFAIRS,  AND  ACTORS2 

In  the  heaviness  that  of  late  years  seems  spread,  like  a 
Lethean  fog,  over  the  prospects  of  a  high-developed  drama  in 
this  country,  there  is  yet  but  little  sign  of  the  "curtain's  rising." 

xFrom  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle ;  February  24,  1847. 

Cf.  post,  II,  p.  277. 

*From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  April  19,  1847. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  157 

At  the  Park  theatre,  a  new  piece,  "Wissmuth  &  Co.," l  has  been 
produced,  but  it  is  doubtless  one  of  those  amphibious  things 
that  balk  the  good  appetite  of  the  times  for  a  better  drama — for 
an  improvement  on  the  antiquated  non-pleasant  method  of  the 
past.  .  .  .  To-night,  at  the  Park,  Mrs.  Mason2  commences  an 
engagement,  playing  Bianca  in  "Fazio" — Mr.  Wheatley3  as  the 
latter  character.  (A  morbid  affair,  this  Fazio  play,  much  like 
the  worst  of  Bulwer's  novels.)  Mrs.  M.  is  spoken  of  in  high 
terms  by  the  critics  of  the  N.  Y.  press;  but  then  there  is  really 
no  dependence  to  be  placed  on  those  notices  of  public  performers 
— they  are  half  of  the  time  paid  for  by  parties  concerned,  and 
much  of  the  other  half  is  the  result  of  favoritism.4  .  .  . 
At  the  Olympic  theatre,  they  are  giving  a  run,  after  the  old  sort, 
of  the  popular  operas,  very  neatly  got  up  on  a  small  scale;  Miss 
Taylor5  appears  to-night  as  Zorlina  in  "Fra  Diavolo";  (the  best 
played  parts  at  this  theatre  are  Diavolo's  two  fellow  robbers). 
.  .  .  At  the  Bowery,  Mrs.  Shaw,6  "takes"  the  countess  in 
Knowles's7  "Love" — a  good  play.  At  the  Chatham,  Yankee 
Hill8  enacts  his  miserably  exaggerated  burlesques  upon  New 
England  manners.  ...  At  the  opera  house  in  Chambers 
street,  they  are  continuing  the  representation  of  a  narrow  few — 

l"Wismuth  and  Co.,  or  the  Noble  and  the  Merchant,"  a  four-act  drama  founded  on 
an  old  German  play.  With  Chanfrau  and  Mrs.  Hunt  in  the  cast,  it  was  nevertheless  un- 
successful when  produced,  for  the  first  time,  on  April  13, 1847. 

2  Mrs.  James  Mason,  formerly  Miss  Emma  Wheatley,  a  sister  of  William  Wheatley, 
with  whom  she  often  acted.  Whitman  would  probably  have  expressed  his  own  opinion 
of  her  acting  when  he  wrote  the  present  essay  but  for  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Mason  was 
just  then  breaking  a  nine-year  retirement  from  the  stage. 

3  William  Wheatley  (18 16-1876)  first  appeared  on  the  stage  at  the  age  of  ten,  acting 
in  "William  Tell"  with  Macready.  He  was  a  "brilliant,  finished,  and  versatile" 
Shakespearean  actor,  and  a  successful  manager,  first  of  the  Arch  Street  Theatre  in  Phila- 
delphia, and  later  of  Niblo's  Garden  in  New  York  (1 862-1 868). 

*Cf.  infra,  p.  1 53. 

6 Miss  Mary  Celia  Taylor,  whose  "delicious  voice"  and  ease  of  acting  made  her  a 
favourite  at  the  Olympic  from  1840  to  1849,  as  we^  as  at  tfte  Bowery  and  elsewhere. 

6  Mrs.  Shaw — later  Mrs.  Shaw-Hamblin — an  actress  in  comedies  and  Shakespearean 
tragedy,  first  appeared  in?America  on  July  25, 1 836,  as  Mariana  in  Knowles's  "  The  Wife." 
She  was  from  the  first  a  favourite  at  the  Park  Theatre.  She  also  acted,  after  1839,  at 
the  Bowery. 

7James  Sheridan  Knowles  (1784-1862),  born  in  Ireland;  a  preacher,  physician,  edu- 
cator, poet,  dramatist,  and  actor.  He  was  the  author  of  "Virginius,"  "The  Hunch- 
back," "William  Tell,"  "Love,"  and  "The  Wife." 

sGeorge  Handel  Hill,  whose  burlesque  interpretation  of  the  Yankee  character  was 
very  popular  with  theatregoers,  particularly  his  acting  of  Solon  Shingle  in  J.  S.  Jones's 
"The  People's  Lawyer."  He  also  played  Jonathan  Plowboy  in  Samuel  Woodworth's 
"The  Forest  Rose."  See  Mr.  Montrose  J.  Moses's  "The  American  Dramatist,"  Boston, 
191 7,  p.  50. 


158  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

those  not  even  the  second  best — of  the  Italian  operas;  tonight, 
"Lucrezia  Borgia." l  On  Wednesday  night,  it  will  be  pleasanter 
to  go,  for  then  they  give  "Lombardi."2  Normust we  overlook  the 
new  musical  corps,  late  from  Havana,  now  giving  operas  at  the 
Park,  two  evenings  a  week:  after  the  next  representation  by 
this  corps,  our  readers  will  get  a  plain  man's  opinions  of 
them.3 

We  reiterate  an  idea  often  advanced  by  us  before — a  sug- 
gestion that  some  great  revolution  must  take  place  here,  mod- 
ernizing and  Americanizing  the  drama,  before  it  can  reach 
that  position  among  the  first  rank  of  intellectual  entertainments, 
and  as  one  of  those  agents  of  refining  public  manners  and  doing 
good,  where  it  properly  belongs.  The  same  style  and  system 
of  theatricals  now  exists  that  existed  a  hundred  years  ago, — 
while  nearly  every  thing  else  is  changed.  What  would  be 
thought  of  writing  novels  and  publishing  newspapers  on  the 
plans  that  prevailed  then?  How  long  too  shall  we  continue  a 
mere  inheritor  of  what  is  discarded  in  the  old  world?  For  the 
noble  specimens  in  all  the  departments  of  literature  which 
England  has  given — for  the  varied  beauties  of  Shakspeare,  the 
treasures  of  her  honest  sturdy  old  comedies,  with  their  satire 
upon  folly  and  vice  of  all  kinds, — we  are  thankful,  and  would 
spread  their  influence  for  ever.  Let  them  hold  possession  of 
the  stage  as  long  as  may  be — but  not  at  the  expense  of  our  in- 
dependence, and  by  making  us  a  set  of  provincial  imitators.  It 
is  no  disrespect  to  those  glorious  old  pieces  and  their  authors  to 
say  that  God's  heavenly  gift  of  genius  has  not  been  confined 
to  them  and  their  method  of  development  alone.  We  have 
here  in  this  land  a  new  and  swarming  race,  with  an  irrepressible 
vigour  for  working  forward  to  superiority  in  every  thing.  As 
yet,  it  is  true,  all  seems  crude,  chaotic,  and  unformed;  but  over 
the  surface  of  the  troubled  waters,  we  think  we  see  far  ahead  the 
Ararat,  and  the  olive  tree  growing  near.  The  drama  must  rise: 
the  reign  of  English  managers  and  English  local  plays  must  have 
its  end. 

*An  Italian  opera  in  four  acts,  the  text  by  Felice  Romain,  the  music  by  Donizetti. 
Champlain  says  this  was  first  sung  in  New  York  in  1854;  but  it  will  be  noted  that  Whit- 
man, writing  at  the  time,  places  its  first  production  at  least  as  early  as  1847. 

*"Lombardi  Alia  Prima  Crociata"  ("The  Lombards  in  the  First  Crusade"). 

3  A  promise  which  was  not  kept. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  159 

[THE  DEMOCRATIC  SPIRIT]1 

To  attack  the  turbulence  and  destructiveness  of  the  demo- 
cratic spirit,  is  an  old  story — a  tale  told  by  many  an  idiot,  and 
often  signifying  indeed  " nothing"2  save  that  the  teller  is  too 
shallow  to  be  more  than  a  mechanical  walker  in  the  paths  of 
the  ignorant  black  past,  and  [to]  look  on  those  who  turn  aside 
therefrom  as  heretics  and  dangerous  ones.  Why,  all  that  is 
good  and  grand  in  any  political  organization  in  the  world,  is 
the  result  of  this  turbulence  and  destructiveness;  and  con- 
trolled by  the  intelligence  and  common  sense  of  such  a  people 
as  the  Americans,  it  never  has  brought  harm,  and  never  can.  A 
quiet  contented  race  sooner  or  later  becomes  a  race  of  slaves — 
and  when  so  become,  there  are  always  among  them  still  worse 
slaves,  bound  mentally,  who  argue  that  it  is  better  so,  than  to 
rise  and  destroy  the  tyranny  that  galls  them.  But  with  the 
noble  democratic  spirit — even  accompanied  by  its  freaks  and  its 
excesses — no  people  can  ever  become  enslaved;  and  to  us  all  the 
noisy  tempestuous  scenes  of  politics  witnessed  in  this  country — 
all  the  excitement  and  strife,  even — are  good  to  behold.  They 
evince  that  the  people  act;  they  are  the  discipline  of  the  young 
giant,  getting  his  maturer  strength.  Is  not  this  better  than 
the  despairing  apathy  wherewith  the  populace  of  Russia  and 
Austria  and  the  miserable  German  states — those  well-ordered 
governments — endure  the  black-hearted  rapacity  of  their  rulers? 
We  trow  it  is.  And  it  is  from  such  materials — from  the  democ- 
racy with  its  manly  heart  and  its  lion  strength,  spurning  the 
ligatures  wherewith  drivellers  would  bind  it — that  we  are  to  ex- 
pect the  great  FUTURE  of  this  western  world!  a  scope  involv- 
ing such  unparalleled  human  happiness  and  rational  freedom, 
to  such  unnumbered  myriads,  that  the  heart  of  a  true  man  leaps 
with  a  mighty  joy  only  to  think  of  it!3  God  works  out  his 
greatest  results  by  such  means;  and  while  each  popinjay  priest 
of  the  mummery  of  the  past  is  babbling  his  alarm,  the  youthful 
Genius  of  the  people  passes  swiftly  over  era  after  era  of  change 
and  improvement,  and  races  of  human  beings  erewhile  down  in 
gloom  or  bondage  rise  gradually  toward  that  majestic  develope- 
ment  which  the  good  God  doubtless  loves  to  witness.     .     .     . 

lFrom  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  April  20, 1847.     1°  this  volume  captions  enclosed 
in  parentheses  have  been  supplied  by  the  editor  when  none  appeared  in  the  original  text. 
Cf.  post,  I,  pp.  259-264. 
2C/.  "Macbeth,"  V,  5,  26-28.  3Cf.  infra,  pp.  15-16. 


160  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

It  is  the  fashion  of  a  certain  set  to  assume  to  despise  "polities'1 
and  the  "corruption  of  parties,"  and  the  unmanageableness  of 
the  masses:  they  look  at  the  fierce  struggle,  and  at  the  battle  of 
principles  and  candidates,  and  their  weak  nerves  retreat  dis- 
mayed from  the  neighborhood  of  the  scenes  of  such  convul- 
sion. But  to  our  view,  the  spectacle  is  always  a  grand  one — 
full  of  the  most  august  and  sublime  attributes.  When  we  think 
how  many  ages  rolled  away  while  political  action — which  rightly 
belongs  to  every  man  whom  God  sends  on  earth  with  a  soul  and  a 
rational  mind — was  confined  to  a  few  great  and  petty  tyrants, 
the  ten  thousandth  of  the  whole;  when  we  see  what  cankerous 
evils  gradually  accumulated,  and  how  their  effect  still  poisons 
society — is  it  too  much  to  feel  this  joy  that  among  us  the  whole 
surface  of  the  body  politic  is  expanded  to  the  sun  and  air,  and 
each  man  feels  his  rights  and  acts  them  ?  Nor  ought  any  member 
of  our  republic  to  complain,  as  long  as  the  aggregate  result  of 
such  action  is  what  the  world  sees  it  is.  Do  we  not  behold 
evolving  into  birth,  from  it,  the  most  wondrous  nation,  the 
most  free  from  those  evils  which  bad  government  causes,  the 
really  widest  extending,  possessing  the  truest  riches  of  people 
and  moral  worth  and  freedom  from  want,  ever  yet  seen  aneath 
the  broad  heavens?  .  .  .  We  know,  well  enough,  that  the 
workings  of  the  democracy  are  not  always  justifiable,  in  every 
trivial  point.  But  the  great  winds  that  purify  the  air,  and  with- 
out which  nature  would  flag  into  ruin — are  they  to  be  condemned 
because  a  tree  is  prostrated  here  and  there,  in  their  course?1 


NEW  STATES:  SHALL  THEY  BE  SLAVE  OR  FREE?2 

It  is  of  not  so  much  importance,  the  difference  in  the  idea  of  a 
proper  time  to  discuss,  if  we  are  only  united  in  the  principle  that 
whatever  new  territory  may  be  annexed  to  the  United  States, 
shall  be  free  territory,  and  not  for  slaves.    With  the  present  slave 

I Cf.  post,  I,  pp.  197-198. 

*From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  April  22,  1847. 

It  was  this  editorial,  "American  Workingmen  versus  Slavery,"  and  others  of  the  sort, 
no  doubt,  which  threw  the  weight  of  the  Eagle's  influence  toward  the  "Barnburner" 
wing  of  the  Democratic  Party  and  resulted  in  the  "rows  with  the  boss  and  the  party" 
(see  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  188)  which  ultimately  set  the  young  editor  adrift.  William 
Cullen  Bryant,  who  was  probably  then,  as  later,  a  friend  of  Whitman,  had  this  comment 
to  make  in  the  columns  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post  on  the  occasion  of  Whitman's  dis- 
missal (January  21,  1848): 

"Democracy  in  Kings  County,  L.  I. — To  a  person  familiar  with  the  fact  as  to  who 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  161 

states,  of  course,  no  human  being  any  where  out  from  them- 
selves has  the  least  shadow  of  a  right  to  interfere;1  but  in  new 
land,  added  to  our  surface  by  the  national  arms,  and  by  the 
action  of  our  government,  and  where  slavery  does  not  exist,  it 
is  certainly  of  momentous  importance  one  way  or  the  other, 
whether  that  land  shall  be  slave  land  or  not.  All  ordinarily 
"weighty  issues"  are  insignificant  before  this:  it  swallows  them 
up  as  Aaron's  rod  swallowed  the  other  rods.  It  involves  the 
question  whether  the  mighty  power  of  this  republic,  put  forth 
in  its  greatest  strength,  shall  be  used  to  root  deeper  and  spread 
wider  an  institution  which  Washington,  Jefferson,  Madison, 
and  all  the  old  fathers  of  our  freedom,  anxiously,  and  avowedly 
from  the  bottom  of  their  hearts,  sought  the  extinction  of,  and 
considered  inconsistent  with  the  other  institutions  of  the  land. 
And  if  those  true  and  brave  old  men  were  now  among  us,  can 
any  candid  person  doubt  which  "side"  they  would  espouse  in 
this  argument?  Would  the  great  apostle  of  democracy — in  his 
clear  views  of  right  and  wrong,  and  their  linked  profit  and  loss — 
would  he  now,  seeing  the  stalwart  giants  of  the  free  young  west, 
contrasted  with  the  meagre  leanness  of  the  south — meagre  with 
all  her  noble  traits — would  he  hesitate  in  bending  his  divine  en- 
ergies to  the  side  of  freedom  ? 

The  man  who  accustoms  himself  to  think,  when  such  matters 
are  put  before  him,  and  does  not  whiff  his  opinion  rapidly  out, 

among  the  democrats  of  the  western  end  of  Long  Island  have  been  for  years  past  in 
command  of  the  movements  there,  the  following  news  will  not  be  very  astonishing: 

"Old  Hunkers  vs.  Barnburners. — Probably  our  readers  know  that  the  democrats 
of  this  state  are  divided  at  the  present  time  under  the  above  heads;  and  of  all  ferocity, 
there  seldom  has  been  seen  any  to  equal  that  which  seems  to  actuate  these  two  sections. 
The  democratic  party  in  Brooklyn — the  Eagle — has  for  two  years  past  been  edited  by 
Mr.  Walter  Whitman,  who,  it  seems,  is  a  'Barnburner.'  In  consequence  of  this  fact 
a  disagreement  has  arisen,  because  the  'Old  Hunkers'  wanted  one  of  their  own  men 
there;  and  Mr.  W.  has  had  to  give  way  to  one  of  the  other  side.' — Brooklyn  Star. 

"It  is  intimated  in  another  Brooklyn  paper  that  the  radicals  are  now  anxious  to  have  a 
press  of  their  own — and  the  late  editor  of  the  Eagle,  mentioned  above,  is  to  engage  in 
such  an  enterprise." 

In  the  fall  of  1848  that  is  precisely  what  Whitman  did  (see  infra,  p.  Hi).  It  is  pos- 
sible, but  unlikely,  that  Whitman  went  south  with  the  intention  of  remaining  only  until 
the  "radicals"  had  the  new  sheet  (the  Brooklyn  Freeman)  ready  for  him.  Still,  it  seems 
a  little  strange  that  a  radical  "Barnburner"  should  have  gone  south  at  all  at  the  time, 
and  more  strange  that  he  should  have  willingly  worked  on  a  paper  which  carried  slave 
auction  announcements,  though  it  did  not,  during  his  connection  with  it,  defend  slav- 
ery. However,  Whitman  was  not  a  man  of  one  reform;  least  of  all  was  he  an  Abolition- 
ist crank  (see  post,  II,  p.  9,  note  3).  He  had  felt  the  call  to  become  the  poet  of  the  whole 
nation  and  must  needs  see  it,  north  and  south.  If  that  meant  self-contradiction  then 
he  would  reply,  "I  am  large,  I  contain  multitudes." 

1  Cf.  post,  II,  p.  57. 


1 62  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

from  mere  heedlessness,  or  from  a  more  degrading  motive,  will 
see  the  wide  and  radical  difference  between  the  unquestionable 
folly,  and  wicked  wrong,  of  "abolitionist"  interference  with 
slavery  in  the  southern  states — and  this  point  of  establishing 
slavery  in  fresh  land.  With  the  former  we  have  nothing  to  do; 
but  with  the  latter,  we  should  all  be  derelict  to  our  highest  du- 
ties as  christians,  as  men,  and  as  democrats,  if  we  did  not  throw 
ourselves  into  the  field  of  discussion,  using  the  utmost  display 
of  every  energy  wherewith  God  has  endowed  us,  in  behalf  of  the 
side  which  reason  and  religion  proclaim  as  the  right  one.  Is 
this  the  country,  and  this  the  age,  where  and  when  we  are  to  be 
told  that  slavery  must  be  propped  up  and  extended  ?  And  shall 
any  respectable  portion  of  our  citizens  be  deluded  either  by  the 
sophisms  of  Mr.  Calhoun,  or  those  far,  very  far,  lower  influences  of 
the  darkest  and  meanest  phases  of  demagougism  [demagoguism], 
which  are  rife  more  at  the  north  than  at  the  south,  to  act  in 
a  matter  which  asks  consideration  purely  on  points  of  high 
justice,  human  rights,  national  advantage,  and  the  safety  of  the 
union  in  the  future? 


THE  AMBITION  TO  "MAKE  A  SHOW"  IN  DRESS.— 
HINTS  TO  BROOKLYN  YOUNG  WOMEN  AND  MEN 

All  people  should  endeavor  to  dress  neatly,  and  with  scru- 
pulous cleanliness  and  tidiness.  But  the  ambition — particu- 
larly in  young  people — to  have  shining  new  clothes  is  of  the 
paltriest  and  most  vulgar  kind.  You  rarely  see  a  young  man  or 
woman  of  real  good  sense,  and  possessing  any  true  accomplish- 
ments, who  makes  a  marked  display  in  the  way  of  apparel. 
Generally  speaking,  in  nature,  the  gaudiest  objects  have  the 
least  real  worth.  The  peacock  is  not  really  as  valuable  as  the 
despised  goose;  the  mackaw  "can't  begin"  with  the  plain- 
looking  nightingale.  .  .  .  We  all  like  to  see  a  «W/-dressed 
young  woman  or  man;  that  is  one  whose  clothes  are  gracefully 
made,  are  plain,  clean,  full,  and  not  awkward.  But  the  mere 
displayer  of  shining  cloth,  with  an  attractive  look  from  top  to 
toe,  is  not  likely  to  please  the  sober  judgment.     .     .     .     Hear 

lFrom  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  April  23,  1847. 

This  editorial  would  seem  to  indicate  that  Whitman's  bohemianism  in  dress  has  not 
yet  been  assumed,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  that  he  is  no  longer  the  dandy  he  was  a  few 
years  previous.     Cf.  post,  I,  pp.  208-210. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  163 

what  somebody  says  of  that  class  whose  life  is  nothing  but  a 
devotion  to  the  appearance  of  their  persons: 

Life  of  a  Dandy. — He  gets  up  leisurely,  breakfasts  comfortably, 
reads  the  paper  regularly,  dresses  fashionably,  eats  a  tart  gravely, 
talks  superfluously,  kills  time  indifferently,  sups  elegantly,  goes  to  bed 
stupidly,  and  lives  uselessly. 


ANTI-DEMOCRATIC  BEARING  OF  SCOTT'S  NOVELS1 

The  novels  of  Walter  Scott  are  in  some  respects  unsurpassed 
— but  cannot  be  altogether  praised.  This  great  writer  delin- 
eates .  kings  and  queens  and  celebrated  historic  personages' 
more  private  life,  perhaps  even  better  where  he  excites  every 
reader's  profoundest  sympathy  by  their  losses,  their  defeats 
in  war,  or  their  severe  calamities.  Nor  does  he  fail  in  a  lower 
sphere.  Who  will  not  follow  Jeanie  Deans  with  every  warm 
feeling  on  her  venturous  journey  to  London?  And  upon  the 
whole,  we  think  the  "Heart  of  Mid  Lothian,"  the  best  of  the 
great  North  Man's  productions.  Considered  artistically  it  is 
certainly  faultless;  and  judging  by  our  own  heart  while  reading 
it,  (as  we  have  done  four  or  five  times)  there  are  no  others  more 
capable  of  deeply  interesting  the  brain  that  peruses  it. 

But  Scott  was  a  tory  and  a  high  church  and  state  man.  The 
impression  after  reading  any  of  his  fictions  where  monarchs  or 
nobles  compare  with  patriots  and  peasants,  is  dangerous  to  the 
latter  and  favorable  to  the  former.  In  the  long  line  of  those 
warriors  for  liberty,  and  those  large-hearted  lovers  of  men  before 
classes  of  men,  which  English  history  has  recorded  upon  its 
annals,  and  which  form  for  the  fast-anchored  isle  a  far  greater 
glory  than  her  first  Richard,  or  her  tyrannical  Stuarts,  Scott 
has  not  thought  one  fit  to  be  illustrated  by  his  pen.  In  him  as  in 
Shakspere,  (though  in  a  totally  different  method,)  "there's 
such  divinity  does  hedge  a  king,"2  as  makes  them  something 
more  than  mortal — and  though  this  way  of  description  may  be 
good  for  poets  or  loyalists,  it  is  poisonous  for  freemen.  The 
historical  characters  of  Scott's  books,  too,  are  not  the  characters 
of  truth.  He  frequently  gets  the  shadow  on  the  wrong  face. 
Cromwell,  for  instance,  was  in  the  main,  and  even  with  severe 

*From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  April  26,  1847. 
Cf.  infra,  pp.  67-72;  post,  II,  pp.  57-58,  105. 
•"Hamlet,"  IV,  5,  106. 


i64  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

faults,  a  heroic  champion  of  his  countrymen's  rights — and  the 
young  Stuart  was  from  top  to  toe  a  licentious,  selfish,  deceitful, 
and  unprincipled  man,  giving  his  fastest  friends  to  the  axe  and 
his  subjects  to  plunder,  when  a  spark  of  true  manly  nerve  would 
have  saved  both.  But  the  inference  to  be  drawn  from  Scott's 
representation  of  these  two  men  makes  the  villain  a  good- 
natured  pleasant  gentleman,  and  the  honest  ruler  a  blood-seeking 
hypocrite!  Shame  on  such  truckling!  It  is  a  stain  black 
enough,  added  to  his  atrocious  maligning  of  Napoleon,  to  render 
his  brightest  excellence  murky! 


RIDE  TO  CONEY  ISLAND,  AND  CLAM-BAKE  THERE1 

Never  was  there  a  time  better  fitted  than  yesterday  for  an 
excursion  from  city  to  country,  or  from  pavement  to  the  sea- 
shore! The  rain  of  the  previous  evening  had  cooled  the  air, 
and  moistened  the  earth;  there  was  no  dust,  and  no  unpleasant 
heat.  It  may  well  be  imagined,  then,  that  a  jolly  party  of 
about  sixty  people,  who,  at  i  o'clock,  p.  m.,  met  at  the  house  of 
Mr.  King,  on  the  corner  of  Fulton  and  Orange  streets,  (where 
they  laid  a  good  foundation  for  after  pleasures,)  had  every  rea- 
son to  bless  their  stars  at  the  treat  surely  before  them.  Yes: 
there  was  to  be  a  clam-bake — and,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  a 
clam-bake  at  Coney-Island!  Could  mortal  ambition  go  higher, 
or  mortal  wishes  delve  deeper?  ...  At  a  little  before  2, 
the  most  superb  stages,  four  of  them  from  Husted  &  Kendall's 
establishment,  were  just  nicely  filled,  (no  crowding,  and  no 
vacant  places,  either,)  and  the  teams  of  four  and  six  horses 
dashed  off  with  us  all  at  a  merry  rate.  The  ride  was  a  most  in- 
spiriting one.  After  crossing  the  railroad  track,  the  signs  of 
country  life,  the  green  fields,  the  thrifty  corn,  the  orchards,  the 
wheat  lying  in  swathes,  and  the  hay-cocks  here  and  there,  with 
the  farming-men  at  work  all  along,  made  such  a  spectacle  as  we 
dearly  like  to  look  upon.  And  then  the  clatter  of  human 
tongues,  inside  the  carriages — the  peals  upon  peals  of  laughter! 
the  jovial  witticisms,  the  anecdotes,  stories,  and  so  forth! — Why, 
there  were  enough  to  fill  ten  octavo  volumes!  The  members 
of  the  party  were  numerous  and  various — embracing  all  the 
professions,  and  nearly  all  the  trades,  besides  sundry  aldermen, 
and  other  officials. 

»From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  July  15, 1847. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  165 

Arrived  at  Coney  Island,  the  first  thing  was  to  "take  a 
dance,"  at  which  sundry  distinguished  personages  shook  care  out 
of  their  heads  and  dust  from  their  heels,  at  a  great  rate.  Then  a 
bathe  in  the  salt  water;  ah,  that  was  good  indeed!  Divers  mar- 
vellous feats  were  performed  in  the  water,  in  the  way  of  splash- 
ing, ducking,  and  sousing,  and  one  gentleman  had  serious 
thoughts  of  a  sortie  out  upon  some  porpoises  who  were  lazily 
rolling  a  short  distance  off.  The  beautiful,  pure,  sparkling, 
sea-water!  one  yearns  to  you  (at  least  we  do,)  with  an  affection 
as  grasping  as  your  own  waves ! l 

Half-past  five  o'clock  had  now  arrived,  and  the  booming  of 
the  dinner  bell  produced  a  sensible  effect  upon  "  the  party,"  who 
ranged  themselves  at  table  without  the  necessity  of  a  second 
invitation.  As  the  expectation  had  been  only  for  a  "clam- 
bake "  there  was  some  surprise  evinced  at  seeing  a  regularly  laid 
out  dinner,  in  handsome  style,  too,  with  all  the  et-ceteras.  But 
as  an  adjunct — by  some,  made  the  principal  thing — in  due  time, 
on  came  the  roasted  clams,  well-roasted  indeed!  in  the  old 
Indian  style,  in  beds,  covered  with  brush  and  chips,  and  thus 
cooked  in  their  own  broth.  When  hunger  was  appeased  with 
these  savory  and  wholesome  viands,  the  champaigne  (good 
stuff  it  was!)  began  to  circulate — and  divers  gentlemen  made 
speeches,  introductory  to,  and  responsive  at,  toasts.  A  great 
many  happy  hits  were  made,  and,  in  especial,  one  of  the  alder- 
men, at  the  head  of  one  of  the  tables,  conceived  a  remarkable 
toast,  at  which  the  people  seemed  tickled  hugely.  The  healths 
of  Messrs.  Masterton,  Smith,  and  King,  of  Mr.  Murphy,2  and  of 
the  corporation  of  Brooklyn,  etc.,  were  drank.  Nor  were  the 
artisans  and  workmen  forgotten;  nor  were  the  ladies,  nor  the 
Brooklyn  press,  which  the  member  of  congress  from  this  district 
spoke  in  the  most  handsome  manner  of,  and  turned  off  a  very 
neat  toast  upon. 

The  return  to  Brooklyn,  in  the  evening,  was  a  fit  conclusion 
to  a  day  of  enjoyment.     The  cool  air,  the  smell  of  the  new  mown 

lCf." Leaves  of  Grass,"  1917, 1,  p.  59: 

You  see!  I  resign  myself  to  you  also — I  guess  what  you  mean 

I  behold  from  the  beach  your  crooked  inviting  fingers, 

I  believe  you  refuse  to  go  back  without  feeling  of  me,  etc. 

This  and  similar  passages  in  Whitman's  verse  evidently  describe  a  temperament 
characteristic  of  his  young  manhood.  On  them  certain  writers  (especially  Doctor  W.  C. 
Rivers  in  his  "  Walt  Whitman's  Anomaly,"  pp.  40  ff.)  have  based  their  assertion  of 
Whitman's  '''sexual  hyperesthesia." 

'Henry  C.  Murphy;  see  post,  II,  pp.  1,  2,  5,  225,  295. 


1 66    THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

hay,  the  general  quiet  around,  (there  was  anything  but  quiet, 
however,  inside  our  vehicles,)  made  it  pleasant  indeed,  We 
ascended  to  the  tower-like  seat,  by  Mr.  Camfield,1  the  driver 
of  the  six-horse  stage,  and  had  one  of  the  pleasantest  sort  of 
eight-mile  rides  back  to  Brooklyn,  at  which  place  our  party  ar- 
rived a  little  after  9  o'clock.  All  thanks,  and  long  and  happy 
lives,  to  the  contractors  on  the  new  city  hall!  to  whose  generous 
spirit  we  were  indebted  for  yesterday's  pleasure. 


NEW  LIGHT  AND  OLD2 

There  are  many  people  among  us — and  generally  intelligent 
ones,  too — who  are  in  the  habit  of  talking,  writing,  and  reason- 
ing on  the  principle  that  government  is  the  power  whose  influence, 
properly  wielded,  ought  to  make  men  virtuous,  happy,  and  pos- 
sessed of  a  competence.  We  find  the  following  extract  in  the 
last  number  of  that  valuable  weekly,  the  American  Statesman: 

Which  is  the  Most  Perfect  Popular  Government? — "That," 
said  Bias,  "where  the  laws  have  no  superior." 

"That,"  said  Thales,  "where  the  inhabitants  are  neither  too  rich 
nor  too  poor." 

"That,"  said  Anacharsis,  the  Scythian,  "where  virtue  is  honored 
and  vice  detested." 

"That,"  said  Pattacus,  "whose  dignities  are  always  conferred  upon 
the  virtuous,  and  never  upon  the  base." 

"That,"  said  Cleopolus,  "where  the  citizens  fear  blame  more  than 
punishment." 

"That,"  said  Chilo,  "where  the  laws  are  regarded  more  than  the 
orators." 

"That,"  said  Solon,  "where  any  injury  done  to  the  meanest  subject 
is  an  insult  to  the  whole  community." 

"  But,"  said  the  wisest  of  them  all,  "  that  is  the  most  perfect  govern- 
ment, where  the  earth  is  not  monopolized  by  the  few  to  the  injury  of 
the  many,  and  where  labor,  receiving  a  just  remuneration  for  its  toil, 
is  guaranteed  to  all.  In  that  government  you  will  find  neither  misery, 
nor  crime,  nor  poverty." 

It  may  seem  a  tall  piece  of  coolness  and  presumption  for  a 
humble  personage  like  ourself  to  put  his  opinions  of  government 

*This  is  probably  a  misprint  for  Canfield,  for  no  Cornfields  appear  in  the  city  directories 
of  the  period. 

*From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  July  26,  1847. 

CJ.  "Song  of  the  Broad-Axe,"  1856,  in  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  1917, 1,  pp.  228-230. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  167 

on  the  same  page  with  those  of  the  wise  men  of  the  ancient  days; 
but,  as  a  common  engineer,  now,  could  tell  Archimedes  things 
to  make  the  latter  stare,  so  the  march  of  improvement  has 
brought  to  light  truths  in  politics  which  the  wisest  sages  of 
Greece  and  Rome  never  discovered.  And  it  is,  at  the  same 
time,  painful  to  yet  see  the  servile  regard  paid  by  the  more 
enlightened  present  to  the  darker  past.  The  recognized  doc- 
trine that  the  people  are  to  be  governed  by  some  abstract  power, 
apart  from  themselves,  has  not,  even  at  this  day  and  in  this 
country,  lost  its  hold — nor  that  to  any  thing  more  than  the 
government  must  the  said  people  look  for  their  well-doing  and 
the  prosperity  of  the  state.  In  such  a  form  of  rule  as  ours  this 
dogma  is  particularly  inconvenient;  because  it  makes  a  perpet- 
ual and  fierce  strife  between  those  of  opposing  views,  to  get 
their  notions  and  doctrines  realized  in  the  laws. 

In  plain  truth,  "the  people  expect  too  much  of  the  govern- 
ment." Under  a  proper  organization,  (and  even  to  a  great  ex- 
tent as  things  are,)  the  wealth  and  happiness  of  the  citizens 
could  be  hardly  touched  by  the  government — could  neither 
be  retarded  nor  advanced.  Men  must  be  "masters  into  [unto?] 
themselves,"  and  not  look  to  presidents  and  legislative  bodies  for 
aid.  In  this  wide  and  naturally  rich  country,  the  best  govern- 
ment indeed  is  "that  which  governs  least."1 

One  point,  however,  must  not  be  forgotten — ought  to  be  put 
before  the  eyes  of  the  people  every  day;  and  that  is,  that  al- 
though government  can  do  little  positive  good  to  the  people,  it 
may  do  an  immense  deal  of  harm.  And  here  is  where  the  beauty 
of  the  democratic  principle  comes  in.  Democracy  would  pre- 
vent all  this  harm.  It  would  have  no  man's  benefit  achieved 
at  the  expense  of  his  neighbors.  It  would  have  no  one's  rights 
infringed  upon  and  that,  after  all,  is  pretty  much  the  sum  and 
substance  of  the  prerogatives  of  government.  How  beautiful 
and  harmonious  a  system!  How  it  transcends  all  other  codes, 
as  the  golden  rule,  in  its  brevity,  transcends  the  ponderous  tones 
[tomes?]  of  philosophic  lore!  While  mere  politicians,  in  their 
narrow  minds,  are  sweating  and  fuming  with  their  complicated 
statutes,  this  one  single  rule,  rationally  construed  and  applied, 
is  enough  to  form  the  starting  point  of  all  that  is  necessary  in 
government:  to  make  no  more  laws  than  those  useful  for  pre- 
venting a  man  or  a  body  of  men  from  infringing  on  the  rights  of 
other  men. 

iCfTpost,  I,  pp.  259-264;  also  "To  the  States,"  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  1917, 1,  p.io. 


1 68  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

We  conclude  our  article  by  the  following  extract  from  a  dis- 
course by*  the  great  Channing,1  which  we  mean  more  particularly 
for  those  who  think  that  poor  citizens  are  the  great  difficulty  in 
the  way  of  national  happiness: 

Mere  wealth  adds  nothing  to  a  people's  glory.  It  is  the  nation's  soul, 
which  constitutes  its  greatness.  Nor  is  it  enough  for  a  country  to  pos- 
sess a  select  class  of  educated,  cultivated  men;  for  the  nation  consists 
of  the  many  not  the  few;  and  where  masses  are  sunk  in  ignorance  and 
sensuality,  there  you  see  a  degraded  community,  even  though  an  aris- 
tocracy of  science  be  lodged  in  its  bosom.  It  is  the  moral  and  intellec- 
tual progress  of  the  people  to  which  the  patriot  should  devote  himself 
as  the  only  dignity  and  safeguard  of  the  state. 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FERRIES2 

Our  Brooklyn  ferries  teach  some  sage  lessons  in  philosophy, 
gentle  reader,  (we  like  that  time-honoured  phrase!3)  whether  you 
ever  knew  it  or  not.  There  is  the  Fulton,  now,  which  takes  pre- 
cedence by  age,  and  by  a  sort  of  aristocratic  seniority  of  wealth 
and  business,  too.  It  moves  on  like  iron-willed  destiny.  Pas- 
sionless and  fixed,  at  the  six-stroke  the  boats  come  in;  and  at  the 
three-stroke,  succeeded  by  a  single  tap,  they  depart  again,  with 
the  steadiness  of  nature  herself.  Perhaps  a  man,  prompted  by 
the  hell-like  delirium  tremens,  has  jumped  over-board  and  been 
drowned:  still  the  trips  go  on  as  before.  Perhaps  some  one  has 
been  crushed  between  the  landing  and  the  prow — (ah !  that  most 
horrible  thing  of  all !)  still,  no  matter,  for  the  great  business  of 
the  mass  must  be  helped  forward  as  before.  A  moment's  pause 
— the  quick  gathering  of  a  curious  crowd,  (how  strange  that  they 
can  look  so  unshudderingly  on  the  scene !) — the  paleness  of  the 
more  chicken  hearted — and  all  subsides,  and  the  current  sweeps 
as  it  did  the  moment  previously.  How  it  deadens  one's  sym- 
pathies, this  living  in  a  city! 

But  the  most  "moral"  part  of  the  ferry  sights,  is  to  see  the 
conduct  of  the  people,  old  and  young,  fat  and  lean,  gentle  and 

1I  presume  this  is  William  Ellery  Channing,  Unitarian  minister,  pulpit  orator,  and 
writer,  but  I  have  been  unable  to  locate  the  passage  in  his  works. 

2  From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  August  13,  1847. 

This  early  editorial  has  interest,  not  only  in  itself,  but  also  because  Whitman  was  such 
a  frequenter  of  the  ferries  and  because  one  of  his  truest  poems  was  written  about,  if  not 
on,  them  ("Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry").  Cf.  also  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  11,  and  post, 
II,  pp.  292-203. 

3Cf.  post,  II,  p.  262. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  169 

simple,  when  the  bell  sounds  three  taps.  Then  follows  a  spec- 
tacle, indeed — particularly  on  the  Brooklyn  side,  at  from  seven 
o'clock  to  nine  in  the  morning.  At  the  very  first  moment  of 
the  sound,  perhaps  some  sixty  or  eighty  gentlemen  are  plodding 
along  the  side  walks,  adjacent  to  the  ferry  boat — likewise  some 
score  or  so  of  lads — with  that  brisk  pace  which  bespeaks  the 
"business  individual."  Now  see  them  as  the  said  three- tap  is 
heard!  Apparently  moved  by  an  electric  impulse,  two  thirds 
of  the  whole  number  start  off  on  the  wings  of  the  wind!  Coat 
tails  fly  high  and  wide!  You  get  a  swift  view  of  the  phantom- 
like semblance  of  humanity,  as  it  is  sometimes  seen  in  dreams — 
but  nothing  more — unless  it  may  be  you  are  on  the  walk  your- 
self, when  the  chances  are  in  favor  of  a  breath-destroying  punch 
in  the  stomach.  In  their  insane  fury,  the  rushing  crowd  spare 
neither  age  nor  sex.  Then  the  single  stroke  of  the  bell  is  heard; 
and  straightway  what  was  rage  before  comes  to  be  a  sort  of 
extatic  fury!  Aware  of  his  danger,  the  man  that  takes  the  toll 
has  ensconced  himself  behind  a  stout  oaken  partition,  which 
seems  only  to  be  entered  through  a  little  window-looking  place: 
but  we  think  he  must  have  more  than  ordinary  courage,  to 
stand  even  there.  We  seriously  recommend  the  ferry  superin- 
tendent to  have  this  place  as  strong  as  iron  bars  can  make  it. 

This  rushing  and  raging  is  not  inconsistent,  however,  with 
other  items  of  the  American  character.  Perhaps  it  is  a  devel- 
opment of  the  "indomitable  energy"  and  "chainless  enter- 
prise "  which  we  get  so  much  praise  for.  But  it  is  a  very  ludi- 
crous thing,  nevertheless.  If  the  trait  is  remembered  down  to 
posterity,  and  put  in  the  annals,  it  will  be  bad  for  us.  Posterity 
surely  cannot  attach  anything  of  the  dignified  or  august  to  a 
people  who  run  after  steam-boats,  with  hats  flying  off,  and  skirts 
streaming  behind!  Think  of  any  of  the  Roman  senators,  or 
the  worthies  of  Greece,  in  such  a  predicament. — (The  esteem 
which  we  had  for  a  certain  acquaintance  went  up  at  least 
a  hundred  per  cent,  one  day,  when  we  found  that,  though  a  daily 
passenger  over  the  ferry,  he  never  accelerated  his  pace  in  the 
slightest  manner,  even  when  by  so  doing,  he  could  "save  a 
boat.") 

A  similar  indecorum  and  folly  are  exhibited  when  the  boat 
approaches  the  wharf.  As  if  some  avenging  fate  were  behind 
them,  and  the  devil  indeed  was  going  to  "  take  the  hindermost," 
the  passengers  crowd  to  the  very  verge  of  the  forward  parts,  and 
wait  with  frightful  eagerness  till  they  are  brought  within  three 


170  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

or  four  yards  of  the  landing — when  the  front  row  prepare  them- 
selves for  desperate  springs.  Among  many  there  is  a  rivalry 
as  to  who  shall  leap  on  shore  over  the  widest  stretch  of  water! 
The  boat  gets  some  four  or  five  feet  from  the  wharf,  and  then 
the  springing  begins — hop!  hop!  hop! — those  who  are  in  the 
greatest  hurry  generally  stopping  for  several  minutes  when 
they  get  on  the  dock  to  look  at  their  companions  behind  on  the 
boat,  and  how  they  come  ashore!  Well:  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
inconsistency  in  this  world. 

The  Catherine  ferry  at  the  foot  of  Main  street  has  plenty 
of  business,  too,  though  not  near  as  much  as  the  one  whose 
peculiarities  we  have  just  been  narrating.  It  has  lately  had 
some  new  boats — or  new  fixings  and  paint,  we  don't  know  which 
— and  presents,  (we  noticed  the  other  day,  in  crossing,)  quite  a 
spruce  appearance.  The  Catherine  ferry  is  used  by  many  work- 
ing people:  in  the  morning  they  cross  there  in  prodigious  num- 
bers. Also,  milk  wagons,  and  country  vehicles  generally.  Dur- 
ing the  day  a  great  many  of  the  Brooklyn  dames  go  over  this 
ferry  on  shopping  excursions  to  the  region  of  Grand  street  and 
Catherine  street  on  the  other  side.  The  desperation  to  get  to 
the  boat,  which  we  have  mentioned  above,  does  not  prevail 
so  deeply  here.  Long  may  the  contagion  "stay  away"!  for 
we  must  confess  that  we  don't  like  to  see  it.  This  ferry,  (like 
all  the  others,)  is  a  very  profitable  investment;  and  from  those 
profits  we  are  warranted  in  saying — as  we  have  said  once  or 
twice  before — that  the  price  for  foot  passengers  should  be  put 
down  to  one  cent,  and  horses  and  wagons  in  proportion. 

The  South  ferry  has  a  more  dainty  and  "genteel"  character 
than  either  of  the  other  places.  The  broad  avenue  which 
leads  to  it,  and  the  neighborhood  of  the  aristocratic  heights, 
from  whom  it  receives  many  of  its  passengers,  keep  it  so.  Busi- 
ness is  not  so  large  there  as  at  either  of  the  other  ferries  we  have 
mentioned;  but  the  accommodations  are  of  the  first  quality. 
The  boats  are  large  and  clean;  and  the  more  moderate  bustle 
and  clatter  make  it  preferable,  during  the  summer  afternoons, 
for  ladies  and  children — the  latter  often  taken  by  their  nurses 
and  remaining  on  board  the  boats  for  an  hour,  for  the  pleasant 
sail. 

Besides  these,  we  have  the  ferry  from  the  foot  of  Jackson 
street  on  the  Brooklyn  side,  to  Walnut  st.  New  York  side. 
This  consists  of  only  one  boat,  and  a  rather  shabby  one  at  that. 
Many  workmen  at  the  navy  yard  use  this  means  of  conveyance; 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  171 

and  it  is  also  of  course  patronized  by  citizens  in  that  vicinity. 
We  should  think  much  better  and  more  rapid  accommodations 
would  be  desirable  there. — The  boat  is  half  the  time  prevented 
by  her  own  unwieldness  from  getting  into  her  slip  under  half  an 
hour's  detention.  She  seems  to  be  some  old  affair  that  has  been 
cast  off  for  years. 

We  have  also  two  other  ferries,  in  the  limits  of  Brooklyn, 
which  in  time  will  be  as  much  avenues  of  business  as  either  of 
the  rest.  One  of  these  goes  from  Whitehall  to  the  foot  of  Ham- 
ilton avenue,  and  accommodates  the  region  of  the  Atlantic 
dock,  and  of  farther  South  Brooklyn,  which  is  daily  assuming 
more  and  more  importance.  The  other  goes  also  from  White- 
hall to  the  long  wharf  near  Greenwood  cemetery.  This  also 
is  necessary  for  the  accommodation  of  a  rapidly  increasing  mass 
of  citizens  who  are  attracted  by  the  salubrity  of  that  section  of 
Brooklyn  joined  with  the  cheapness  of  the  land  and  the  nearness 
of  the  beautiful  grounds  of  the  cemetery. 

The  ferry  at  the  foot  of  Montagu[e]  street  is  in  progress;  and 
will  probably  be  in  operation  next  spring.  The  Bridge  street 
ferry  is  also  determined  upon,  and  may  be  completed  by  the 
same  time. 


AMERICAN   WORKINGMEN,    VERSUS   SLAVERY1 

The  question  whether  or  no  there  shall  be  slavery  in  the  new 
territories  which  it  seems  conceded  on  all  hands  we  are  largely 
to  get  through  this  Mexican  war,  is  a  question  between  the 
grand  body  of  white  workingmen,  the  millions  of  mechanics, 
farmers,  and  operatives  of  our  country,  with  their  interests,  on 
the  one  side — and  the  interests  of  the  few  thousand  rich, 
"polished,"  and  aristocratic  owners  of  slaves  at  the  south,  on 
the  other  side.  Experience  has  proved,  (and  the  evidence  is  to 
be  seen  now  by  any  one  who  will  look  at  it)  that  a  stalwart  mass 
of  respectable  workingmen  cannot  exist,  much  less  flourish,  in  a 
thorough  slave  state.  Let  any  one  think  for  a  moment  what  a 
different  appearance  New  York,  Pennsylvania,  or  Ohio  would 
present — how  much  less  sturdy  independence  and  family  happi- 
ness there  would  be — were  slaves  the  workmen  there,  instead  of 
each  man  as  a  general  thing  being  his  own  workman.     We  wish 

*From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  September  I,  1847. 
Cf.  infra,  pp.  160-162;  post,  II,  pp.  8-10. 


172  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

not  at  all  to  sneer  at  the  south;  but  leaving  out  of  view  the  edu- 
cated and  refined  gentry,  and  coming  to  the  "common  people*' 
of  the  whites,  everybody  knows  what  a  miserable,  ignorant, 
and  shiftless  set  of  beings  they  are.  Slavery  is  a  good  thing 
enough,  (viewed  partially,)  to  the  rich — the  one  out  of  thousands; 
but  it  is  destructive  to  the  dignity  and  independence  of  all  who 
work,  and  to  labor  itself.  An  honest  poor  mechanic,  in  a  slave 
state,  is  put  on  a  par  with  the  negro  slave  mechanic — there 
being  many  of  the  latter,  who  are  hired  out  by  their  owners. 
It  is  of  no  use  to  reason  abstractly  on  this  fact — farther  than  to 
say  that  the  price  of  a  northern  American  freeman,  poor  though 
he  be,  will  not  comfortably  stand  such  degredation. 

The  influence  of  the  slave  institution  is  to  bring  the  dignity 
of  labor  down  to  the  level  of  slavery,  which,  God  knows! 
is  low  enough.  And  this  it  is  which  must  induce  the  workingmen 
of  the  north,  east,  and  west,  to  come  up,  to  a  man,  in  defense  of 
their  rights,  their  honor,  and  that  heritage  of  getting  bread  by 
the  sweat  of  the  brow,  which  we  must  leave  to  our  children.  Let 
them  utter  forth,  then,  in  tones  as  massive  as  becomes  their 
stupendous  cause,  that  their  calling  shall  not  be  sunk  to  the 
miserable  level  of  what  is  little  above  brutishness — sunk  to  be 
like  owned  goods,  and  driven  cattle! — We  call  upon  every 
mechanic  of  the  north,  east,  and  west — upon  the  carpenter,  in 
his  rolled  up  sleeves,  the  mason  with  his  trowel,  the  stone-cutter 
with  his  brawny  chest,  the  blacksmith  with  his  sooty  face,  the 
brown-fisted  ship-builder,  whose  clinking  strokes  rattle  so 
merrily  in  our  dock  yards — upon  shoemakers,  and  cartmen, 
and  drivers,  and  paviers,  and  porters,  and  millwrights,  and 
furriers,  and  ropemakers,  and  butchers,  and  machinists,  and 
tinmen,  and  tailors,  and  hatters,  and  coach  and  cabinet  makers 
— upon  the  honest  sawyer  and  mortar-mixer,  too,  whose  sinews 
are  their  own — and  every  hard-working  man — to  speak  in  a 
voice  whose  great  reverberations  shall  tell  to  all  quarters  that 
the  workingmen  of  the  free  United  States,  and  their  business, 
are  not  willing  to  be  put  on  the  level  of  negro  slaves,  in  territory 
which,  if  got  at  all,  must  be  got  by  taxes  sifted  eventually 
through  upon  them,  and  by  their  hard  work  and  blood.  But 
most  of  all  we  call  upon  the  farmers,  the  workers  of  the  land — 
that  prolific  brood  of  brown  faced  fathers  and  sons  who  swarm 
over  the  free  states,  and  form  the  true  bulwark  of  our  republic, 
mightier  than  walls  or  armies — upon  them  we  call  to  say  whether 
they  too  will  exist  "free  and  independent"  not  only  in  name 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  173 

but  also  by  those  social  customs  and  laws  which  are  greater  than 
constitutions — or  only  so  by  statute,  while  in  reality  they  are 
put  down  to  an  equality  with  slaves! 

There  can  be  no  half  way  work  in  the  matter  of  slavery  in  the 
new  territory:  we  must  either  have  it  there,  or  have  it  not. 
Now  if  either  the  slaves  themselves,  or  their  owners,  had  fought 
or  paid  for  or  gained  this  territory,  there  would  be  some  reason 
in  the  pro-slavery  claims.  But  every  body  knows  that  the 
work  and  the  cost  come,  forty-nine  fiftieths  of  it,  upon  the  free 
men,  the  middling  classes  and  workingmen,  who  do  their  own 
work  and  own  no  slaves.  Shall  these  give  up  all  to  the  aristo- 
cratic owners  of  the  south?  Will  even  the  poor  white  freemen 
of  the  south  be  willing  to  do  this?  It  is  monstrous  to  ask  such 
a  thing! 

Not  the  least  curious  part  of  the  present  position  of  this 
subject  is,  the  fact  who  advances  the  claims  of  slavery,  and  the 
singular  manner  in  which  those  claims  are  half-allowed  by  men  at 
the  north  who  ought  to  know  better.  The  truth  is  that  all 
practice  and  theory — the  real  interest  of  the  planters  them- 
selves— and  the  potential  weight  of  the  opinions  of  all  our  great 
statesmen,  southern  as  well  as  northern,  from  Washington  to 
Silas  Wright — are  strongly  arrayed  in  favor  of  limiting  slavery 
to  where  it  already  exists.  For  this  the  clear  eye  of  Washington 
looked  longingly;  for  this  the  great  voice  of  Jefferson  plead, 
and  his  sacred  fingers  wrote;  for  this  were  uttered  the  prayers 
of  Franklin  and  Madison  and  Monroe.  But  now,  in  the  south, 
stands  a  little  band,  strong  in  chivalry,  refinement,  and  genius — 
headed  by  a  sort  of  intellectual  Saladin — assuming  to  speak  in 
behalf  of  sovereign  states,  while  in  reality  they  utter  their  own 
idle  theories;  and  disdainfully  crying  out  against  the  rest  of  the 
republic,  for  whom  their  contempt  is  but  illy  concealed.  The 
courage  and  high- tone  of  these  men  are  points  in  their  favor,  it 
must  be  confessed.  With  dextrous  but  brazen  logic  they  profess 
to  stand  on  the  constitution  against  a  principle  whose  very 
existence  dates  from  some  of  the  most  revered  formers  of  that 
constitution!  And  these — this  band,  really  little  in  numbers, 
and  which  could  be  annihilated  by  one  pulsation  of  the  stout 
free  heart  of  the  north — these  are  the  men  who  are  making  such 
insolent  demands,  in  the  face  of  the  working  farmers  and  me- 
chanics of  the  free  states — the  nine-tenths  of  the  population  of 
the  republic.  We  admire  the  chivalric  bearing  (sometimes  a  sort 
of  impudence)  of  these  men.     So  we  admire,  as  it  is  told  in 


174  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

history,  the  dauntless  conduct  of  kings  and  nobles  when  ar- 
raigned for  punishment  before  an  outraged  and  a  too  long- 
suffering  people.  .  .  .  But  the  course  of  moral  light  and 
human  freedom,  (and  their  consequent  happiness),  is  not  to  be 
stayed  by  such  men  as  they.  Thousands  of  noble  hearts  at 
the  north — the  entire  east — the  uprousing  giant  of  the  free  west 
— will  surely,  when  the  time  comes,  sweep  over  them  and  their 
doctrines  as  the  advancing  ocean  tide  obliterates  the  channel 
of  some  little  brook  that  erewhile  ran  down  the  sands  of  its 
shore.  Already  the  roar  of  the  waters  is  heard;  and  if  a  few 
short-sighted  ones  seek  to  withstand  it,  the  surge,  terrible  in 
its  fury,  will  sweep  them  too  in  the  ruin. 


EAST  LONG  ISLAND  CORRESPONDENCE1 

LETTER  I 

Starting  on  the  Railroad — Bedford — East  New  York — Jamaica — 
characters ' '     there — Hempstead — Hicksville — Farm  ingdale, 
(  form  erly  *  *  Hards  crabble> ' ' )  fin  is. 

Riverhead,  Suffolk  County,  September  ioth. — At  half- 
past  one  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon,  I  started  on  the  L.  I. 
railroad  from  the  South  ferry  on  my  way  to  the  eastern  section 
of  "old  Nassau."  The  usual  splutter  which  precedes  a  start 
attended  us,  of  course.  Little  boys  with  newspapers,  friends 
taking  leave,  women  uttering  "last  words,"  Emerald  ladies 
with  peaches,  (oranges  now  are  among  the  things  that  were,) 
and  small  fry  with  various  wares,  surrounded  the  cars;  and  these, 
with  the  assistance  of  the  furious  steam  pipe,  and  certain  ob- 
streperous iron  work  that  certes  seemed  to  have  some  rickety 
disorder,  made  up  a  scene  that  would  make  the  fortune  of  a 
melo-drama,  if  brought  in  at  the  close  of  an  act — but  which  I 
was  glad  enough  to  escape  from,  I  assure  you. 

The  first  stopping  place  was  at  Bedford.  So  near  to  Brook- 
lyn, our  readers  are  most  of  them  familiar  enough  with  the 
aspect  of  this  pretty  little  hamlet;  it  has  a  great  amount  of 

lFrom  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  September  16,  1847. 

It  was  not  very  uncommon  in  Whitman's  editorial  days  for  an  editor  to  travel  occa- 
sionally, keeping  in  touch  with  his  newspaper  or  magazine  by  meansof  "correspondence." 
During  his  editorship  of  the  Eagle  Whitman  appears  to  have  made  two  trips  to  the 
eastern  end  of  the  Island  (see  infra,  pp.  11 8-1 21),  and  another  while  writing  for  the 
Standard  {stcpost,  II,  pp.  306-321).  Cf.post,  II,  pp.  275-278.  The  present  journey  lasted, 
apparently,  about  two  weeks. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  175 

shrubbery  and  trees,  and  that  same  richness  of  vegetation 
gives  it,  with  all  its  rurality,  something  of  a  fever-and-aguish 
aspect,  which  I  should  hardly  like  to  live  in  the  midst  of,  more 
than  long  enough  to  visit  my  hospitable  friend  W.,  at  his  cot- 
tage there. 

East  New  York  comes  next  on  the  line.  This  settlement  is 
quite  a  flat.  To  the  north  rises  a  spur  of  that  range  of  hills 
which  runs  nearly  through  the  island,  and  gives  the  settlement 
a  relief  from  the  character  of  monotony  which  most  flat  places 
possess.  East  New  York  was  going  to  be,  once,  a  very  great 
city,  and  arrangements  were  made  on  a  corresponding  scale 
to  have  it  so.  A  post  office  was  established,  also  a  school  and 
church,  ditto  a  "land  agency";  after  which  there  was  some  talk 
of  a  bank — (all  this  was  years  ago,  in  the  "speculation  times"1) 
— and  your  humble  servant  himself  was  spoken  to  about  going 
there  and  establishing  a  newspaper. — Numerous  lots  were  sold, 
and  buildings  erected. — The  place  did  really  offer  a  pretty  nat- 
ural situation,  and  the  land  presenting  no  obstacle  to  conveni- 
ence of  every  kind  in  forming  a  village,  golden  dreams  were 
paramount  in  the  heads  of  more  than  its  principal  proprietor, 
Mr.  Pitkin.  But  alas!  like  all  the  false  business  that  was  super- 
induced by  the  poisonous  influence  of  the  United  States  bank, 
and  the  paper  speculators  of  those  days,  the  bubble  burst  at 
last — and  East  New  York  almost  burst  with  it.  I  observe  that 
some  clusters  of  buildings  are  still  there,  and  most  of  them  seem 
to  be  occupied.  But  the  whole  village  is  devoid  of  that  aspect 
of  vitality  which  notes  [denotes  ?]  a  thriving  and  growing  place, 
where  the  inhabitants  are  "making  money." 

After  passing  the  Union  race  course — the  scene  of  so  many 
feverish  contests,  and  of  the  changing  ownership  of  cash,  and 
which  presents,  in  its  every-day  look  so  wondrous  a  difference 
from  the  days  when  great  races  are  to  come  off — we  arrived  at 
Jamaica.  This  is  truly  a  charming  place,  and  is  occupied  by 
many  intellectual  and  wealthy  people.  It  consisted  a  few  years 
ago  mostly  of  one  main  street,  the  turnpike;  but  of  late  years 
this  has  been  intersected  by  a  great  many  thoroughfares,  and 
now  Jamaica  can  almost  present  its  claims  to  a  cityfied  char- 
acter. It  has  as  many  churches,  in  proportion,  as  Brooklyn — 
including  that  of  "the  old  dominie,"  Mr.  Schoonmaker,  who 
used  to  preach  alternately  in  Dutch  and  English. — Also  the  old 
Methodist  church,  with  its  little  panes  of  window  glass,  about  as 

*C/.post,  II,  p.  297. 


176  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

big  as  boarding  house  pancakes.  At  this  last,  is  stationed  one 
of  the  old  fathers,  the  venerable  presiding  elder  of  the  Long 
Island  district,  Mr.  Matthias,  whose  age  and  estimable  char- 
acter make  him  much  endeared  to  everybody.  Jamaica  has 
two  newspapers,  the  Democrat,1  whose  politics  are  signified  by  its 
name,  and  the  Farmer,2  a  whig  print. — Some  good  schools,  for 
both  sexes,  and  any  quantity  of  stores  and  public  houses,  are 
also  in  Jamaica. 

We  then  stopped  a  moment  at  Brushville,  two  or  three  miles  to 
the  east,  where  the  Hempstead  turnpike  turns  off  from  the  one 
which  leads  down  unto  Jericho;  and  the  next  "station,"  as 
called  out  by  the  conductor,  is  Hempstead  "and  Branch," — 
something  like  "Boston  and  New  England."  The  railroad,  as 
you  probably  know,  does  not  run  through  the  village  of  Hemp- 
stead, which  is  somewhat  to  be  regretted.  Said  village  lies  some 
two  miles  to  the  south;  and  the  stopping  place  is  a  settlement 
built  up  right  in  the  middle  of  the  plains,  on  the  strength  of 
that  being  the  stopping  place.  It  does  not  look  so  bare,  though, 
as  one  would  expect,  from  the  character  of  the  surrounding 
country.  A  track  has  been  laid  to  connect  with  the  village  of 
Hempstead  so  that  passengers  can  go  from  Brooklyn  there, 
without  getting  out  of  the  car:  it  goes  down  from  the  main  track 
by  horse-engine  instead  of  steam. — Hempstead  is  an  old  village, 
mostly  celebrated  for  its  clams,  (indeed  it  is  by  some  called 
Clamtown.)  It  is  pretty  in  its  situation,  very  wholesome,  has  a 
worthy  population,  and  is  considerable  of  a  trading  town. 
There  is  one  newspaper  there,  the  Inquirer?  neutral  in  politics, 
an  excellent  academy,  and  divers  churches.  To  the  southeast 
from  it  stretches  the  great  turnpike  that  leads  down  along  our 
island's  "sea-girt  shore,"  even  through  the  gates  of  Jerusalem 
and  into  the  recess  of  Babylon  the  great. 

Hicksville  comes  next,  (not  stopping  to  make  particular 
mention  of  Carl  place  and  Westbury).  Ah,  how  are  the  mighty 
fallen!  Hicksville  was  going  to  be  "one  of  the  cities,"  when 
the  railroad  was  first  finished  to  it.4  We  remember  the  time. 
Why,  people  bought  lots  there,  (only  think  of  it,)  and  speculated 
in  them,  just  the  same  as  the  corn  and  flour  dealers,  last  winter, 
went  into  their  speculations. — And  full  as  bitterly  bitten  were  the 
dreamers  of  this  "city  on  the  plain,"  as  were  our  floury  neigh- 
bours at  the  western  end  of  South  street.     Hicksville  now 

lCf.  infra,  xxxii  and  notes.     *Cf.  infra,  p.  32,  note  2. 
*Cf.  infra,  p.  48,  note  2.        4  In  1837. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  177 

consists  of  one  very  large  tavern,  with  a  remarkably  meagre 
aspect,  and  standing  much  in  want  of  a  coat  of  paint — one  huge 
car  house — sundry  pig-pens  unoccupied — and  a  few  houses,  also 
unoccupied. — The  only  thing  in  which  Hicksville  has  ample 
room  and  verge  enough,  and  which  a  man  might  take  without 
any  one  saying  him  nay,  would  be  yard  room — for  potato 
patches,  drying 'clothes,  or  any  other  purpose  he  saw  fit.  In 
every  direction  you  look  on  nothing  but  the  flat  plains — of 
which  I  shall  have  more  to  say  in  one  of  these  rambling  epistles. 

Farmingdale  lies  some  seven  or  eight  miles  farther  east. 
In  the  vernacular  hereabout  it  was  called  Hardscrabble  (this 
is  the  veritable  place!)  but  the  rage  for  improvement,  not 
agreeing  with  Juliet,  (wasn't  it  Shakespere's  Juliet,  who  asked 
about  that  "rose"?1)  wisely  thought  that  any  other  name 
would  be  more  inviting  than  Hardscrabble.2    I  think  it  was  right. 

But  I  have  made  my  letter  already  long  enough  for  this 

day  of  short  newspaper  articles.  Though  I  have  headed  my 
letter  "East  Long  Island  correspondence/' — and  though  it  has, 
as  yet,  got  no  farther  than  Farmingdale,  I  shall  let  the  heading 
stand  in  view  of  what  I  shall  write  in  future.  I  have  dated  it  at 
Riverhead,  too,  though  I  must  describe  several  localities  yet 
before  I  catch  up,  (or  rather  get  the  reader  to  catch  up,)  to  River- 
head.  We  are  "enjoying"  a  pretty  dull,  continued,  chilly  rain, 
this  morning — after  having  had  said  rain,  in  a  still  heavier  de- 
velopment, during  the  night — and  a  prospect  of  "the  same  sub- 
ject continued,"  during  the  day,  and  perhaps  longer. 


EAST  LONG  ISLAND  CORRESPONDENCE3 

LETTER  II 

Scenery  after  leaving  Farmingdale  {otherwise  Hardscrabble^) 
Huntington  and  Babylon;  Deer  Park;  scenery  at  the  "stations" ; 
West  Hills;  Medford,  Yaphank,  and  St.  George's  manor;  practica- 
bility of  cultivating  the  wild  land  here;  stopping  at  Riverhead;  &c. 

After  leaving  Farmingdale,  we  trudged  east  with  our  steam 
steed  through  brush,  plains,  pine,  scrub  oak,  and  all  the  other 
peculiarities  of  those  singular  diggins,  at  a  speed  considerably 

l" Romeo  and  Juliet,"  II,  2,  43. 

2See  the  Index  for  other  evidence  of  Whitman's  interest  in  place  names. 

3  From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  September  18,  1847. 


178  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

faster  than  ordinary  wind.  The  next  station  to  Farmingdale  is 
Deer  Park,  somewhat  halfway  between  the  village  of  Hunting- 
ton on  the  north  and  Babylon  the  great  on  the  south.  You 
must  not  suppose,  from  the  name  of  this  station,  that  it  really 
is  a  park,  or  that  deer  are  very  plentiful  here.  On  the  contrary, 
few  spots  can  peresent  a  more  dreary  and  barren  appearance. 
The  blackened  stumps  of  pine  trees,  the  uninviting  glimpses  of 
a  bit  of  soil  here  and  there,  the  monotonous  pine  tree,  and  one 
single  house,  used  as  a  tavern,  are  all  that  relieve  the  eye.  But 
it  is  very  different  both  to  the  north  and  south.  There  lie  the 
ample  and  rich  farms  of  the  good  old  democratic  town  of  Hunt- 
ington. Thousands  and  thousands  of  the  best  soil  on  Long 
Island  are  comprised  in  them.  To  the  north  are  apple  orchards 
and  grass  lands,  so  thrifty  that  the  eye  of  an  agriculturist  might 
gloat  for  hours  in  the  mere  seeing  of  them.  The  land  is  diver- 
sified into  hills  and  valleys;  and  on  the  tops  of  the  highest  eleva- 
tions are  little  lakes  of  the  purest  water,  which  form  brooks 
down  the  valleys,  and  irrigate  many  of  the  neighboring  fields. 
What  is  called  the  highest  point  of  land  on  the  island  is  at 
West  Hills,  in  the  town  of  Huntington;  it  was  made  much  use 
of  by  Mr.  Hassler,  the  U.  S.  chief  of  engineers,  in  the  great  plan 
of  coast  survey  which  has  been  going  on  for  some  years  past. 
The  other  part  of  Huntington,  lying  along  the  south  bay,  is  of  a 
different  character;  it  partakes  offish,  both  on  the  land  as  well 
as  water.  Fish  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  manures  known, 
and  under  its  influence  the  corn  grows  to  an  astonishing  height 
and  size.  I  have  thought,  indeed,  that  the  fault  among  the 
farmers  here  was  in  putting  too  much  of  it,  at  a  time,  on  their 
land.  Like  Macbeth's  ambition,  it  o'erleaps  itself  and  falls 
on  the  other  side  of  fertility.1 

Beyond  Deer  Park  are  numerous  petty  "stations,"  which  al- 
ways make  me  think  of  new  single  habitations  in  the  far  west2 — 
with  their  cheerless  looking  houses,  barefooted  children,  and 
general  slovenliness.  These  "stations"  are  appointed  gener- 
ally with  respect  to  some  village  or  town  off  against  them  on  the 
north  or  south  turnpikes,  and  consist  mostly  of  but  one  or  two 
structures,  and  those  of  the  shabbiest  kind.  Sometimes  a  little 
spot  for  gardening  is  cleared  around  them;  but  the  energy  of 
their  owners  seems  to  give  out  before  any  great  good  has  been 
done.     You  see  the  dwarfed  and  sickly  yellow  corn,  and  the 

iaMacbeth,"  1,9,27-28. 

2  There  is  no  evidence  that  Whitman  had  himself  visited  the  West  previous  to  this  time. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  179 

poor  beans  and  potatoes;  but  no  care  is  taken  of  them  when 
they  promise  so  wretchedly,  which  redoubles  their  dwarfedness 
and  sickliness. — I  am  firmly  convinced,  however,  that  a  little 
intelligent  knowledge  of  agriculture,  aided  by  its  great  hand- 
maiden chemistry,  would  do  wonders  here,  and  soon  make 
even  these  sterile  spots  to  bud  and  blossom  like  the  rose.  It 
is  a  pity  that  there  is,  among  the  farmers  of  Long  Island,  an 
unusual  share  of  the  contempt  of  their  craft  for  "book-farming." 

Medford,  Yaphank,  St.  George's  manor,  and  so  forth,  are 
the  names  of  some  of  the  stopping  places  here — to  the  south 
and  north  of  which  lie  many  rich  and  fertile  neighborhoods. 
The  railroad  seems  to  have  been  built  with  the  design  of  running 
thro*  the  most  unproductive  and  the  most  uninviting  parts  of 
the  island.  For  while  on  both  sides,  adjacent  to  the  shore,  one 
could  hardly  go  amiss  of  pleasant  places,  athwart  the  line  of 
the  rails  the  eye  rests,  soon  after  leaving  Jamaica,  upon  one  con- 
tinued spread  of  apparently  useless  land,  uncultivated  and  al- 
most valueless — and  this  quite  down  to  Greenport.  The  ques- 
tion as  to  the  practicability  of  cultivating  this  land  has  lately 
been  started.  A  very  large  portion  of  it  doubtless  is  susceptible 
of  cultivation. 

Never  having  been  to  Riverhead,  the  county  town  of  old  Suf- 
folk, I  suddenly  resolved,  when  the  conductor  sung  out  its  name, 
and  the  cars  stopped  there,  to  stop  there  too.  Accordingly,  I 
clutched  my  carpet  bag,  and,  in  obedience  to  the  prevailing 
spirit  of  haste,  was  soon  out  upon  the  platform. — The  village 
itself  lies  a  little  south  from  the  stopping  place  of  the  railroad, 
and  is  one  of  the  oldest  on  Long  Island.  Of  its  character,  pe- 
culiarities, and  what  I  have  delved  out  here  in  the  way  of  inci- 
dent— as  well  as  how  I  am  "getting  along"  myself — I  shall  ad- 
vise you  more  fully  in  another  epistle. 

Since  my  setting  down  here,  we  have  been  blessed  with  a 
refreshing  time  in  the  way  of  a  cold,  dull,  dark,  blue-devilish, 
north-east  rain — not  a  bit  of  sunshine  or  clear  sky  being  even 
momentarily  visible.  I  was  in  hopes,  last  evening,  that  a 
change  was  coming  over  the  spirit  of  the  dream,1  but  at  the 
moment  of  the  present  writing,  (Saturday  morning,  nth,)  the 
clouds  are  as  heavy  as  ever.  But  never  mind:  is  a  man  made 
to  grumble  merely  because  the  skies  look  dark?  Are  not  the 
skies  there  still? 

iCf."A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream,"  Byron's  "The  Dream,"  Stanza  3, 
line  I.     Cf.  I,  post,  p.  218. 


180  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

I  heard  last  night  that  authentic  news  of  Scott's  victories  at 
the  city  of  Mexico  had  been  received  in  town.  Consider  me  as 
on  the  top  of  the  tallest  pine  tree  in  the  present  neighborhood, 
wafting  my  gratified  patriotism  to  you  in  the  loudest  sort  of 
a  "holler." 


EAST  LONG  ISLAND  CORRESPONDENCE1 
LETTER  III 

Southold,  September  14TH. — Seeing,  to-day,  as  I  passed  one 
of  the  country  stores,  a  real  Indian,  (at  least  as  far  as  there  are 
any  of  that  race  now-a-days;  that  is,  perhaps,  an  Indian  whose 
blood  is  only  thinned  by  only  two  or  three  degrees  of  mixture,) 
my  thoughts  were  turned  toward  the  aboriginal  inhabitants  of 
this  island.  A  populous  and  powerful  race!  for  such  they  once 
were.  Some  authorities  assert  that,  at  the  earliest  approach  of 
the  whites  to  this  part  of  the  continent,  and  for  a  time  after,  the 
Indian  inhabitants  of  Long  Island  numbered  a  million  and  a  half. 
This  may  be  an  over-estimate;  but  the  red  race  here  was  cer- 
tainly very  numerous,  as  is  evidenced  by  many  tokens.  "An 
ancient  Indian,"  says  one  tradition,  "more  than  a  hundred  years 
ago,  declared  to  one  of  the  earliest  inhabitants  of  Easthampton, 
that  within  his  recollection  the  natives  were  as  many  as  the 
spears  of  grass.  And  if,  said  he,  stretching  his  hands  over  the 
ground,  you  can  count  these,  then,  when  I  was  a  boy,  you  could 
have  reckoned  their  number."  .  .  .  Another  token  is  the 
immense  shell-banks,  at  intervals,  all  along  the  shores  of  the 
island — some  of  them  literally  "  mountain  high."  Another  is  the 
immense  tract  devoted  to  the  fields  of  Indian  corn. 

Unlike  the  present  arrangement,  the  seat  of  the  greatest 
aboriginal  population  and  power  was  on  the  eastern  extremity  of 
Long  Island.  On  the  peninsula  of  Montauk  dwelt  the  royal 
tribe; — and  there  lived  and  ruled  the  noble  Wyandanch;  (will  not 
the  Union  ferry  company  be  persuaded  to  take  off  that  miserably 
wrong  terminative  of  "dank"  from  the  boat  they  pretend  to 
christen  after  the  old  chief).2    This  chief  held  a  position  not 

lFrom  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  September  20,  1847. 

'William  Wallace  Tooker,  in  his  "Indian  Place  Names  on  Long  Island"  (Putnam's, 
New  York,  1911),  pp.  294-295,  gives  ten  different  spellings,  apparently  preferring 
Wyandance,  in  which  form  the  name  supplanted  that  of  Deer  Park  {infra,  p.  178) 
on  January  1,  1889.  Wyandance  was  Sachem  of  Paumanack  (Whitman's  spelling, 
Paumanok,  is  not  given  by  Tooker  at  all),  after  the  death  of  his  elder  brother  in  1652. 
His  name  means  "the  wise  speaker."        Cf.  post,  II,  pp.  274-275,  315-316. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  181 

unlike  our  American  president.  On  the  Island  were  thirteen 
separate  tribes,  (our  King's  county  was  occupied  by  the  "Can- 
arsees,")  who  were  united  in  one  general  confederacy,  at  the 
head  of  which  was  Wyandanch.  From  Montauk,  whose  white 
sides  resounded  forever  with  the  mighty  voice  of  the  sea,  went 
forth  the  supreme  commands  and  decisions.  Here,  too,  was  the 
holiest  of  the  burial  places,  the  sacred  spots  to  all  savage  na- 
tions, and  peculiarly  so  to  our  North  American  Indians.  On 
Montauk,  even  now,  may  also  be  seen  remains  of  aboriginal 
fortifications,  one  of  which  at  what  is  now  called  "Fort  Hill" 
must  have  been  a  work  of  art  indeed.  It  had  ramparts  and 
parapets,  ditches  around,  and  huge  towers  at  each  of  four  cor- 
ners— and  is  estimated  to  have  afforded  conveniences  for  three 
or  four  hundred  men,  and  to  evince  singular  knowledge  of  war- 
fare, even  as  understood  by  what  we  call  civilized  nations. 
Wars,  indeed,  added  to  pestilence,  and  most  of  all  the  use  of  the 
"fire-water,"1  thinned  off  the  Indian  population  from  the  earlier 
settlement  of  the  whites,  until  there  are  hardly  any  remaining. 
I  believe  there  are  but  two  clusters  of  Indian  families  that  can 
be  called  settlements,  now  on  the  island.  One  is  at  Shinnecock, 
and  consists  of  some  hundred  and  forty  or  fifty  persons:  the 
other  is  down  on  Montauk,  and  does  not  comprise  a  baker's 
dozen.  Sad  remnants,  these,  of  the  sovereign  sway  and  the  old 
majesty  there! 


EXCERPTS  FROM  A  TRAVELLER'S  NOTE  BOOK— 

[No.  i]2 

Crossing  the  Alleghanies 

We  left  Baltimore  on  Saturday  morning  at  seven  o*  clock, 
on  the  railroad  for  Cumberland,  which  is  about  a  hundred  and 
seventy  miles  distant,  at  the  eastern  edge  of  the  Alleghanies. 
Of  course,  at  this  season  of  the  year  the  country  is  not  remark- 

lCf.  post,  II,  p.  in.  For  other  evidences  of  Whitman's  interest  in  the  Indians,  see 
post,  II,  pp.  233-235,  260-261,  274-275,  314-317- 

2From  the  Daily  Crescent  (New  Orleans),  March  5,  1848. 

Whitman's  connection  with  the  Crescent  extended  from  its  first  issue,  Sunday,  March 
5,  1848  (thereafter  it  was  issued  only  on  week  days),  until  he  resigned,  May  24,  1848 
(see  post,  II,  p.  78).  Since  he  was  not  in  sole  editorial  charge  of  the  paper,  as  he  had  been 
in  the  Eagle  office,  it  is  necessary  to  identify  his  contributions.  Some  of  these  are  signed 
"W"  or  "W.  W."  The  latter  form  of  initial  was  affixed  to  the  only  poem  known  to 
have  been  published  by  him  in  the  Crescent,  "  The  Mississippi  at  Midnight."    The  ori- 


1 82  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

ably  fascinating  anywhere;  and  here  a  very  large  portion  of  the 
road  is  bounded  on  one  side  or  the  other  by  cliffs  and  steeps  of 
an  Alp-like  loftiness.  We  seemed,  for  at  least  a  hundred  miles, 
to  follow  the  course  of  an  interminable  brook,  winding  with  its 
windings,  and  twisting  with  its  twists,  in  a,  to  me,  singular 
fashion.  But  even  with  so  many  circuits,  the  road  had  to  be  cut 
through  very  many  bad  places;  and  was  probably  one  of  the 
most  expensive  railroads  ever  built.  It  pays  enormous  profits, 
however;  and  they  seriously  "talk"  about  having  it  continued  to 
some  place  on  the  Ohio,  perhaps  Wheeling.  After  "talking 
about  it"  awhile,  it  will  very  likely  be  done;  it  only  wants  money 
enough — and  an  enormous  lot  of  that  it  will  want,  too! 

At  Harper's  Ferry,  where  they  gave  us  twenty  minutes  to 
dine,  the  scenery  is  strikingly  abrupt  and  varied.  Houses 
were  perched  up  over  our  heads — backs  in  the  ground — and 
others  perched  up  over  their  heads,  and  so  on.  The  finest  scenery, 
though,  even  here,  (if  it  be  not  a  bull  to  say  so,)  is  about  half  a 
mile  off.     As  soon  as  the  cars  stopped,  a  frightful  sound  of  bells 

ginal  version,  which  differs  in  many  respects  from  that  in  the  "Complete  Prose"  (pp. 
373~374-)>  is  to  be  found  in  Doctor  Bucke's  "Notes  and  Fragments"  (pp.  41-42),  in  the 
Yale  Review,  October,  191 5,  and  in  the  "Publications  of  the  Louisiana  Historical  Society," 
Vol.  VII,  pp.  102-103.  Other  contributions  given  here  are  identified  (1)  by  their  being  in 
Whitman's  particular  province  as  described  by  himself  (this  applies  only  to  "  Fourierism," 
post,I,  p.  229;  see  post,  II,  p.  78);  (2)  by  their  unambiguous  similarity  to  Whitman's 
preserved  writings  (as  "General  Taylor  at  the  Theatre,"  post,  I,  p.  225);  (3)  by  the  de- 
tailed statements  of  one  of  Whitman's  fellow  journalists  of  the  New  Orleans  press  of 
1848  (James  Edmunds,  author  of  "Kant's  Ethics,"  Louisville,  1884)  to  Mr.  William 
Kernan  Dart,  whose  article  on  "Walt  Whitman  in  New  Orleans"  ("Publications  of  the 
Louisiana  Historical  Society,"  Vol.  VII)  mentions  most  of  the  important  articles  which 
can  with  assurance  be  ascribed  to  Whitman;  or  (4)  by  two  or  more  of  these  methods  of 
identification.  It  may  be  said  also  that  there  is  nothing  in  any  of  these  articles  to  con- 
tradict the  statements  of  Mr.  Dart,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  internal  evidence 
of  Whitman's  authorship  is  very  strong. 

As  to  the  "  Excerpts  from  a  Traveller's  Note  Book,"  they  follow  the  known  route  of 
the  Whitmans  (see  "Complete  Prose,"  pp.  14-15)  in  their  journey  to  New  Orleans  and 
was  published  immediately  after  their  arrival.  As  they  were  not  published  as  "com- 
municated" matter,  it  is  extremely  unlikely  that  they  were  written  by  any  other  pen, 
even  were  there  no  authority  for  ascribing  them  to  Whitman.  In  addition,  the  internal 
evidence  is  so  strong  as  to  be  practically  conclusive  in  itself.  Curiously  enough,  the 
first  and  longest  of  these  sketches  was  not  mentioned  by  Mr.  Dart  in  his  article,  since 
(as  appeared  upon  investigation)  he  had  examined  only  the  file  of  the  Crescent  in  the 
Hunter  Memorial  Library,  which  happened  to  lack  the  first  number.  A  complete  file 
is  to  be  seen  in  the  Library  of  the  Louisiana  Historical  Society.  This  oversight  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Dart,  whose  work  is  otherwise  careful,  became  the  basis  for  the  erroneous 
assertion,  made  both  by  Professor  George  Rice  Carpenter  and  by  Professor  Perry 
(whose  information  was  obtained  from  Professor  Carpenter),  to  the  effect  that  the 
Crescent  was  first  issued  on  March  6 — a  curious  though  trifling  error. 

These  three  sketches  are  here  numbered  and  dated  as  in  the  Crescent,  but,  as  the  third 
obviously  should  precede  the  second,  the  Crescent's  accidental  or  careless  twisting  of  the 
travel-story  is  here  corrected  so  as  not  to  confuse  the  reader. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  183 

and  discordant  screams  surrounded  us,  and  we  were  all  but  torn 
in  pieces  by  the  assault,  as  it  were!  Recovering  from  the  first 
shock  of  such  an  unexpected  salute,  we  found  that  there  were 
several  "hotels,' '  each  moved  by  a  bitter  rivalry  for  getting  the 
passengers  to  eat  their  dinner.  One  "opposition  house,"  in 
particular,  seemed  bent  upon  proceeding  to  extremities — and 
most  of  the  passengers  were  fain  to  go  quietly  in.  For  a  good 
dinner  here,  the  price  was  only  twenty-five  cents. 

Cumberland,  at  which  we  arrived  about  sunset,  is  a  thriving 
town,  with  several  public  edifices,  a  newspaper  or  two,  and  those 
[institutions]  invariably  to  be  found  in  every  western  and  south- 
ern community,  some  big  "hotels."  The  town  has  a  peculiar  char- 
acter, from  its  being  the  great  rendezvous  and  landing  place  of 
the  immense  Pennsylvania  wagons,  and  the  drovers  from  hun- 
dreds of  miles  west.  You  may  see  Tartar-looking  groups  of 
these  wagons,  and  their  drivers,  in  the  open  grounds  about, — 
the  horses  being  loosed — and  the  whole  having  not  a  little  the 
appearance  of  a  caravan  of  the  Steppes.  Hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  these  enormous  vehicles,  with  their  arched  roofs  of 
white  canvas,  wend  their  way  into  Cumberland  from  allq  uar- 
ters,  during  a  busy  season,  with  goods  to  send  on  eastward,  and 
to  take  goods  brought  by  the  railroad.  They  are  in  shape  not  a 
little  like  the  "Chinese  junk,"  whilom  exhibited  at  New  York — 
being  built  high  at  each  end,  and  scooping  down  in  the  waist. 
With  their  teams  of  four  and  six  horses,  they  carry  an  almost 
incalculable  quantity  of  "freight";  and  if  one  should  acci- 
dentally get  in  the  road-ruts  before  their  formidable  wheels, 
they  would  perform  the  work  of  a  Juggernaut  upon  him  in  most 
effectual  order.  The  drivers  of  these  vehicles  and  the  drovers 
of  cattle,  hogs,  horses,  &c,  in  this  section  of  the  land,  form  a 
large  slice  of  "society." 

Night  now  falling  down  around  us  like  a  very  large  cloak  of 
black  broadcloth,  (I  fancy  that  figure,  at  least,  hasn't  been  used 
up  by  the  poets1)  and  the  Alleghanies  rearing  themselves  up 
"some  pumpkins"2  (as  they  say  here,)  right  before  our  nasal 
members,  we  got  in  to  one  of  the  several  four-horse  stage  coaches 

'Du  Bartas  came  very  near  it  in  "Night's  black  mantle  covers  all  alike"  ("Divine 
Weeks  and  Works,"  Sylvester  translation,  First  Week,  First  Day).  The  important 
fact,  however,  is  that  Whitman  has  begun  his  war  on  the  conventionality  of  existing 
poetry.     The  early  notebook  specimens  belong  to  this  period. 

*"A  term  in  use  at  the  South  and  West,  in  opposition  to  the  equally  elegant  phrase 
'small  potatoes.'  The  former  is  applied  to  anything  large  or  noble;  the  latter  to  any 
thing  small  or  mean."     (Bartlett,  "Dictionary  of  Americanisms,"  p.  626.) 


1*4  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

of  the  "National  Road  and  Good  Intent  Stage  Company," 
whereby  we  were  to  be  transported  over  those  big  hills.  They 
did  the  thing  systematically,  whatever  may  be  said  elsewise. 
All  the  passengers'  names  were  inscribed  on  a  roll,  (we  purchased 
tickets  in  Philadelphia,  at  $13  a  head,  to  go  to  Wheeling,)  and  a 
clerk  stands  by  and  two  or  three  negroes  with  a  patent  weigh- 
ing machine.  The  clerk  calls  your  name — your  baggage  is 
whipped  on  the  machine,  and  if  it  weighs  over  fifty  pounds,  you 
have  to  pay  extra.  You  are  then  put  in  the  stage,  (literally 
put  in,  like  a  package,  unless  you  move  quickly,)  your  baggage 
packed  on  behind — and  the  next  name  called  off — baggage 
weighed — and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  If  six  passen- 
gers desire  it,  or  any  smaller  number  who  will  pay  for  six,  they 
can  wait  and  have  a  coach  sent  with  them  the  next  morning, 
or  at  any  hour  they  choose.  One  cunning  trick  of  the  company 
is,  that  they  give  you  no  check  or  receipt  for  your  baggage,  for 
which  they  pretend  not  to  be  responsible.  It  is  best,  there- 
fore, if  possible,  for  each  passenger  to  have  some  witness  to  his 
baggage  and  its  amount,  in  which  case,  if  it  be  lost,  the  com- 
pany will  have  to  pay  up — whatever  they  publish  to  the  con- 
trary. 

So  they  boxed  us  up  in  our  coach,  nine  precious  souls,  and  we 
dashed  through  the  town  and  up  the  mountains,  with  an  appar- 
ent prospect  of  as  comfortable  a  night  as  could  be  expected, 
considering  all  things.  One  or  two  of  the  passengers  tried  to 
get  up  a  conversational  entertainment;  one  old  gentleman,  in 
particular,  did  talk.  He  resided  on  a  farm  in  the  interior  of 
Ohio.  He  had  been  on  to  Washington,  (I  heard  the  fact  at 
least  twenty-five  times  in  the  course  of  that  night  and  the  next 
day,)  to  claim  a  certain  $5,000  from  the  Government  for  cap- 
turing a  British  merchant  brig  off  the  coast  of  Maine,  in  the 
last  war.  She  got  becalmed,  or  something  of  that  sort,  and  he 
being  thereabout,  in  command  of  a  fishing  smack,  sailed  or 
rowed  up,  captured  her  and  brought  her  into  port,  where  the 
Government  functionaries  took  possession  of  her  and  sold  her 
cargo  for  some  $30,000.  Our  old  gentleman,  however,  (not  then 
old,  of  course,)  had  no  privateering  papers,  and  [was]  conse- 
quently not  a  dollar  the  gainer.  He  had  now  been  on  to  Wash- 
ington to  see  about  it,  and  was  in  hopes  of  getting  at  least  his 
share  of  the  sale.  (Poor  old  man !  if  he  lives  till  he  gets  Con- 
gress to  pay  him,  he  will  be  immortal.)  This  famous  old  gen- 
tleman moreover  informed  us  that  his  wife  had  had   thirteen 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  185 

children,  one  in  every  month  of  the  year,  and  one  over  besides — 
all  being  alive  and  kicking!  He  did  not  know  exactly  what  to 
think  about  the  Mexican  war;  but  he  thought  that  Congress 
might  at  least  grant  decent  pensions  to  those  who  were  severely 
maimed  in  it,  and  to  the  widows  of  both  officers  and  privates 
who  were  killed.  Sage  and  sound  conclusions,  thought  the 
rest  of  us  too.1  And  here  I  may  say,  once  for  all,  that,  though 
expecting  to  find  a  shrewd  population  as  I  journeyed  to  the 
interior,  and  down  through  the  great  rivers,2 1  was  by  no  means 
prepared  for  the  sterling  vein  of  common  sense  that  seemed  to 
pervade  them — even  the  roughest  shod  and  roughest  clad  of 
all.  A  satirical  person3  could  no  doubt  find  an  ample  field  for 
his  powers  in  many  of  the  manners  and  the  ways  of  the  West; 
and  so  can  he,  indeed,  in  the  highest  circles  of  fashion.  But  I 
fully  believe  that  in  a  comparison  of  actual  manliness  and  what 
the  Yankees  call  "gumption,"  the  well-to-do  citizens  (for  I  am 
not  speaking  so  much  of  the  country,)  particularly  the  young 
men,  of  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Boston,  Brooklyn  and  so  on, 
with  all  the  advantages  of  compact  neighborhood,  schools,  etc., 
are  not  up  to  the  men  of  the  West.  Among  the  latter,  probably, 
attention  is  more  turned  to  the  realities  of  life,  and  a  habit 
formed  of  thinking  for  one's  self;  in  the  cities,  frippery  and  arti- 
ficial fashion  are  too  much  the  ruling  powers.4 

Up  we  toiled,  and  down  we  clattered,  (for  the  first  fifty  miles 
it  was  nearly  a// up,)  over  these  mighty  warts  on  the  great  breast 
of  nature.  It  was  excessively  cold;  the  moon  shone  at  intervals; 
and  whenever  we  stopped,  I  found  the  ground  thickly  covered 
with  snow.  The  places  at  which  we  changed  horses,  (which 
was  done  every  ten  miles,)  were  generally  long,  old,  one-story 
houses,  with  stupendous  fires  of  soft  coal  that  is  so  plentiful 
and  cheap  here.  In  the  night,  with  the  mountains  on  all  sides, 
the  precipitous  and  turning  road,  the  large,  bare-armed  trees 
looming  up  around  us,  the  room  half  filled  with  men  curiously 
enwrapped  in  garments  of  a  fashion  till  then  never  seen — and  the 
flickering  light  from  the  mighty  fire  putting  a  red  glow  upon 
most  objects,  and  casting  others  into  a  strong  shadow — I  can 
tell  you  these  stoppages  were  not  without  interest.     They  might, 

1  Whitman  had  advocated  the  granting  of  homesteads  in  the  West  to  the  veterans 
of  this  war.     (See  "The  Gathering  of  the  Forces,"  II,  pp.  229-230.) 

*C/.  infra,  pp.  1 51-152. 

•Possibly  a  reference  to  Dickens's  "American  Notes,"  which,  though  distasteful  to 
Whitman,  the  latter  forgave  his  English  favourite. 

*Cf.post,Ui?.3o 


1 86  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

it  seems  to  me,  afford  first  rate  scenes  for  an  American  painter — 
one  who,  not  continually  straining  to  be  merely  second  or  third 
best,  in  imitation,  seizes  original  and  really  picturesque  occa- 
sions of  this  sort  for  his  pieces.1  There  was  one  of  the  Alle- 
ghany inns,  in  particular,  that  we  stopped  at  about  an  hour  after 
midnight.  (All  the  staging  across  these  mountains,  both  to  and 
fro,  is  done  in  the  night,  which  engrafts  a  somewhat  weird  char- 
acter upon  the  public  houses — their  busy  time  being  from  sunset 
to  sunrise.)  There  were  some  ten  or  twelve  great  strapping 
drovers,  reclining  about  the  room  on  benches,  and  as  many 
more  before  the  huge  fire.  The  beams  overhead  were  low  and 
smoke-dried.  I  stepped  to  the  farther  end  of  the  long  porch; 
the  view  from  the  door  was  grand,  though  vague,  even  in  the 
moonlight.  We  had  just  descended  a  large  and  very  steep  hill, 
and  just  off  on  one  side  of  us  was  a  precipice  of  apparently 
hundreds  of  feet.  The  silence  of  the  grave  spread  over  this 
solemn  scene;  the  mountains  were  covered  in  their  white 
shrouds  of  snow — and  the  towering  trees  looked  black  and 
threatening;  only  the  largest  stars  were  visible,  and  they  glit- 
tered with  a  tenfold  brightness.  One's  heart,  at  such  times, 
is  irresistibly  lifted  to  Him  of  whom  these  august  appearances 
are  but  the  least  emanation.  Faith!  if  I  had  an  infidel  to  con- 
vert, I  would  take  him  on  the  mountains,  of  a  clear  and  beauti- 
ful night,  when  the  stars  are  shining. 

Journeying  in  this  manner,  the  time  and  the  distance  slipped 
away,  until  we  welcomed  the  gray  dawn  of  the  morning.  Half 
an  hour  more  brought  us  to  Uniontown,  at  the  western  side  of  the 
Alleghanies — and  glad  enough  were  "all  hands"  to  arrive  there. 


EXCERPTS  FROM  A  TRAVELLER'S  NOTE  BOOK— 

[No.  3]* 

Western  Steamboats — The  Ohio 

Having  crossed  the  Alleghanies  during  Saturday  night,  and 
spent  the  ensuing  day  in  weary  stages,  from  Uniontown  onward, 
we  arrived  at  Wheeling  a  little  after  10  o'clock  on  Sunday  night, 
and  went  aboard  the  steamer  St.  Cloud,  a  freight  and  packet 
boat,  lying  at  the  wharf  there,  with  the  steam  all  up,  and  ulti- 

1This  call  for  a  native  American  school  of  painting  was  a  logical  sequel  to  his  demand 
for  a  native  music  and  drama.     Cf.  infra,  pp.  104-106,  1 52-1 54;  post,  I,  p.  158. 
*From  the  Daily  Crescent,  March  10,  1848. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  187 

mately  bound  for  New  Orleans.  This  was  my  "first  appear- 
ance" on  a  Western  steamboat.  The  long  cabin,  neatly  car- 
peted, and  lit  with  clusters  of  handsome  lamps,  had  no  uncom- 
fortable look;  but  the  best  comfort  of  the  matter  lay  in  (what  I 
myself  soon  laid  in)  a  good  state  room,  of  which  I  took  posses- 
sion, and  forthwith  was  oblivious  to  all  matters  of  a  waking 
character.  Roused  next  morning  by  the  clang  of  the  breakfast 
bell,  I  found  that  we  had  during  the  night  made  a  good  portion 
of  our  way  toward  Cincinnati. 

Like  as  in  many  other  matters,  people  who  travel  on  the 
Ohio,  (that  most  beautiful  of  words!)  for  the  first  time,  will  stand 
a  chance  of  being  somewhat  disappointed.  In  poetry  and 
romance,  these  rivers  are  talked  of  as  though  they  were  cleanly 
streams;  but  it  is  astonishing  what  a  difference  is  made  by  the 
simple  fact  that  they  are  always  and  altogether  excessively 
muddy — mud,  indeed,  being  the  prevailing  character  both 
afloat  and  ashore.  This,  when  one  thinks  of  it,  is  not  only  rea- 
sonable enough,  but  unavoidable  in  the  very  circumstances  of 
the  case.  Yet,  it  destroys  at  once  the  principal  beauty  of  the 
rivers.  There  is  no  romance  in  a  mass  of  yellowish  brown 
liquid.  It  is  marvellous,  though,  how  easily  a  traveller  gets  to 
drinking  it  and  washing  in  it.  What  an  india-rubber  principle, 
there  is,  after  all,  in  humanity! 

To  one  who  beholds  steamboat-life  on  the  Ohio  for  the  first 
time,  there  will  of  course  be  many  fresh  features  and  notable 
transpirings.  One  of  the  first  and  most  unpleasant,  is  the  want 
of  punctuality  in  departing  from  places,  and  consequently  the 
same  want  in  arriving  at  them.  All  the  steamers  carry  freight, 
that  being,  indeed,  their  principal  business  and  source  of 
profit,  to  which  the  accommodation  of  passengers,  (as  far  as  time 
is  concerned)  has  to  stand  secondary.  We  on  the  St.  Cloud,  for 
instance,  picked  up  all  sorts  of  goods  from  all  sorts  of  places, 
wherever  our  clever  little  captain  made  a  bargain  for  the  same. 
What  he  brought  down  from  Pittsburg,  the  Lord  only  knows; 
for  we  took  in  afterward  what  would  have  been  considered  a 
very  fair  cargo  to  a  New  York  liner.  At  one  place,  for  instance, 
we  shipped  several  hundred  barrels  of  pork;  ditto  of  lard;  at 
another  place,  an  uncounted  (by  me)  lot  of  flour — enough, 
though,  it  seemed,  to  have  fed  half  the  office-holders  of  the 
land — and  that  is  saying  something.  Besides  these,  we  had 
bags  of  coffee,  rolls  of  leather,  groceries,  dry  goods,  hardware, 
all  sorts  of  agricultural  products,  innumerable  coops  filled  with 


1 88  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

live  geese,  turkeys,  and  fowls,  that  kept  up  a  perpetual  farm- 
yard concert.  Then  there  were  divers  living  hogs,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  a  horse,  and  a  resident  dog.  The  country  through  which 
the  Ohio  runs  is  one  of  the  most  productive  countries — and 
one  of  the  most  buying  and  selling — in  the  world;  and  nearly  all 
the  transportation  is  done  on  these  steamboats.  Putting  those 
two  facts  together,  one  can  get  an  idea  of  the  infinite  variety,  as 
well  as  amount  of  our  cargo.  To  my  eyes  it  was  enormous; 
though  people  much  used  to  such  things  didn't  seem  to  consider 
it  any  wonder  at  all. 

About  half  past  6  o'clock,  on  board  these  boats — I  begin  at 
the  beginning,  you  see — the  breakfast  bell  is  rung,  giving  the 
passengers  half  an  hour  to  prepare  for  the  table.  Of  edibles, 
for  breakfast,  (as  at  the  other  meals,  too,)  the  quantity  is  enor- 
mous, and  the  quality  first  rate.  The  difference  is  very  wide 
between  the  table  here  and  any  public  table  at  the  northeast; 
the  latter,  as  many  a  starved  wight  can  bear  testimony,  being, 
in  most  cases,  arranged  on  a  far  more  economical  plan.  The 
worst  of  it  is,  on  the  Western  steamboats,  that  everybody 
gulps  down  the  victuals  with  railroad  speed.  *With  that  dis- 
tressing want  of  a  pleasant  means  to  pass  away  time,  which  all 
travellers  must  have  experienced,  is  it  not  rather  astonishing 
that  the  steamboat  breakfast  or  dinner  has  to  be  dispatched 
in  five  minutes? 

During  the  day,  passengers  amuse  themselves  in  various  ways. 
Cheap  novels  are  in  great  demand,  and  a  late  newspaper  is  a  gem 
almost  beyond  price.  From  time  to  time,  the  boat  stops, 
either  for  wood  or  freight;  sometimes  to  pick  up  a  passenger  who 
hails  from  the  shore.  At  the  stopping  places  on  the  Kentucky 
side,  appear  an  immense  number  of  idlers,  boys,  old  farmers, 
and  tall,  strapping,  comely  young  men.  At  the  stopping  places 
on  the  northern  shore,  there  seems  to  be  more  thrift  and  ac- 
tivity. The  shore,  each  way,  is  much  of  it  barren  of  interest; 
though  the  period  must  arrive  when  cultivation  will  bend  it 
nearly  all  to  man's  use.  Here  and  there,  already,  is  a  comfort- 
able house;  and,  at  intervals,  there  are  tracts  of  well-tilled  land, 
particularly  on  the  Ohio  line. 

In  the  evening,  (the  reader  must  remember  that  it  is  not  for 
one  evening  only,  but  sometimes  for  ten  or  twelve,)  the  passenger 
spends  his  time  according  to  fancy.  In  our  boat,  the  St.  Cloud, 
the  two  large  cabin  tables  were  sometimes  surrounded  by  readers; 
and  the  stove  by  smokers  and  talkers.     The  ladies  appeared  to 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  189 

have  rather  a  dull  time  of  it  in  their  place.  Most  of  them  would 
sit  listlessly  for  hours  doing  nothing — and,  so  far  as  I  could 
learn,  saying  nothing! 

Among  the  principal  incidents  of  the  voyage  was  crossing  the 
falls  of  the  Ohio,  just  below  Louisville.  Our  boat  was  very 
deeply  laden;  and  there  is  a  canal  around  the  ticklish  pass;  our 
captain,  with  Western  hardihood,  determined  to  go  over  the 
"boiling  place."  For  my  own  part,  I  didn't  know  till  after- 
wards, but  that  it  was  an  every  hour  occurence.  The  bottom 
of  the  boat  grated  harshly  more  than  once  on  the  stones  be- 
neath, and  the  pilots  showed  plainly  that  they  did  not  feel  alto- 
gether as  calm  as  a  summer  morning.  We  passed  over,  how- 
ever, in  perfect  safety.  The  Ohio  here  has  a  fall  of  many  feet 
in  the  course  of  a  mile.  Does  not  the  perfection  to  which  en- 
gineering has  been  brought  afford  some  means  of  remedying 
this  ugly  part  of  the  river?  Besides  the  canal  around  on  the 
Kentucky  side,  the  Indiana  Legislature  has  lately  granted  a 
charter  for  one  on  its  shore,  too. 

From  Louisville  down,  one  passes  through  a  long  stretch  of 
monotonous  country — not  varied  at  all,  sometimes  for  dozens  of 
miles.  The  Ohio  retains  its  distinctive  character  of  mud,  till 
you  get  to  the  very  end  of  it. 

Cairo,  at  the  junction  of  the  Mississippi,  pointed  our  passage 
into  the  great  Father  of  Waters.  Immense  sums  of  money 
have  been  spent  to  make  Cairo  something  like  what  a  place 
with  such  a  name  ought  to  be.  But  with  the  exception  of  its  po- 
sition, which  is  unrivalled  for  business  purposes,  everything 
about  it  seems  unfortunate.  The  point  on  which  it  is  situated 
is  low,  and  liable  to  be  overflowed  at  every  high  flood.  Besides, 
it  is  unwholesomely  wet,  at  the  best.  It  is  doubtful  whether 
Cairo  will  ever  be  any  "great  shakes,"  except  in  the  way  of  ague. 


EXCERPTS   FROM   A   TRAVELLER'S   NOTE   BOOK— 

[No.  2J1 

Cincinnati  and  Louisville 

It  may  well  be  doubted  whether  any  large  city  in  Christendom 
can  show  a  more  plentiful,  or    cheaper,  supply  of  what  are 

»From  the  Daily  Crescent,  March  6,  1848. 

In  lapping  back  over  the  narrative  of  the  last  paper,  this  article  indicates  how  careless 
Whitman  often  was  as  a  journalist.  He  seldom  planned  ahead,  or  if  he  did,  he  seldom 
carried  out  his  plans.     Cf.  infra,  p.158;  post,  I,  pp.  255,  293. 


i9o  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

termed  "provisions"  than  Cincinnati.  All  the  richest  and 
wholesomest  products  of  the  earth  pour  in  there,  as  into  a  sort 
of  cornucopia — all  that  grows  on  these  farms  or  is  rendered 
from  the  dairy,  or  the  care  of  the  poulterer.  You  can  buy  a 
pair  of  the  fattest  sort  of  chickens,  in  the  markets  there,  for  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar,  and  many  other  things  that  are  in  proportion. 
If  it  were  possible,  though,  to  make  the  side  bank  which  rises 
up  from  the  Ohio  anything  else  except  the  ungainly  mud  which 
it  is  nearly  all  the  time,  the  city  in  question  would  be  hugely 
the  gainer  among  that  large  class  "people  in  general."  That 
miry  bank  gives  anything  but  an  agreeable  character  to  those 
who  see  Cincinnati  from  the  river:  it  could  certainly  be  reme- 
died, and  to  the  profit,  too,  of  passengers,  drays,  and  horses. 
A  favorite  name  for  the  shops,  as  a  prefix,  is  that  of  the  "Queen 
City."  One  may  notice  many  a  "Queen  City  Segar  Store," 
and  "Queen  City  Clothing  Emporium,"  etc.  The  princely  in- 
vitation of  "Walk  In"  is  also  inscribed  on  about  one-third  of 
the  shop  window  lights.  With  New  York  and  New  Orleans, 
Cincinnati  undoubtedly  makes  the  trio  of  business  places  in  this 
republic — though  Philadelphia  must  not  be  forgotten  either. 
There  are  very  large  and  flourishing  manufactories  at  Cincin- 
nati, and  the  retail  stores  vie  with  those  of  the  sea-board.  If 
the  advice  be  not  considered  impertinent,  however,  we  should 
advise  the  city  papers  to  have  the  streets  cleaned,  and  kept  so, 
"regardless  of  expense." 

Louisville,  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  further  down  on  the 
Ohio,  is  a  smaller  and  considerably  quieter  city  than  the  one 
above  named.  It  has  a  substantial  look  to  him  who  walks 
through  it  for  the  first  time;  and,  withal,  does  not  a  little  busi- 
ness in  provisions,  too.  Most  of  the  boats  passing  on  the  Ohio 
rendezvous  here — and  if  it  were  not  for  the  ugly  "falls"  just 
below  the  city,  (avoided  by  a  canal  on  the  Kentucky  side,) 
doubtless  there  would  be  still  more  from  below.  Louisville  has 
many  noble  and  hospitable  citizens,  whose  family  circles  make  a 
"happy  time"  for  him  who  gets  on  visiting  terms  with  them.1 

1Whether  this  observation  is  based  on  hear  say  or  on  experience  I  do  not  know.     But 
Cf.  infray  p.  24,  note. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  191 

MODEL  ARTISTS1 

Half  the  newspapers  we  get  from  the  North2  have  something 
tc  say  about  the  "  Model  Artists,"  often  in  a  tone  of  very  severe 
condemnation.  They  say  the  sight  of  such  things  is  indecent; 
if  that  be  so,  the  sight  of  nearly  all  the  great  works  of  painting 
and  sculpture — pronounced  by  the  united  voice  of  critics  of  all 
nations  to  be  master-pieces  of  genius — is,  likewise,  indecent. 
It  is  a  sickly  prudishness  that  bars  all  appreciation  of  the  divine 
beauty  evidenced  in  Nature's  cunningest  work — the  human 
frame,  form  and  face. 

There  may  be  some  petty  attempts,  in  the  low  by-places, 
which  all  cities  have,  to  counterfeit  these  groupings,  after  a 
vile  method.  Such,  however,  are  only  to  be  seen  by  those  who 
go  especially  to  see  them.  Of  the  graceful  and  beautiful  group- 
ings— most  of  them — after  models  in  sculpture — exhibited  by 
persons  of  taste  and  tact,  it  is  hard  to  see  what  harm  can  be 
said. 


A  QUESTION  OF  PROPRIETY* 

Our  contemporary  of  the  Mobile  Herald  disagrees  altogether 
from  some  humble  remarks  of  ours,  last  week,  on  the  subject  of 
"Model  Artists" — and,  (as  near  as  we  remember,  for  the  paper 
containing  the  remarks  alluded  to  has  been  mislaid,)  disagrees 
also  from  our  opinion  of  the  perfect  propriety  of  sculptures  and 
paintings  after  a  similar  sort  with  these  "Artists."  In  what  we 
said,  and  in  what  we  have  to  say,  it  is  not  so  much  about  the 
Model  Artists,  but  the  general  principle,  in  this  country;  for 
among  the  nations  on  the  continent  of  Europe  it  has  been 
settled  long  ago.  A  portion  of  England  holds  out  still;  but  they 
do  it  more  from  the  proverbial  obstinacy  of  John  Bull  than 
from  any  other  reason. 

The  only  objection  that  we  conceive  of  to  the  undraped  figure 
arises  from  an  assumption  of  coarseness  and  grossness  intended. 

»From  the  Daily  Crescent,  March  6,  1848. 

Cf.  post,  I,  p.  194;  also  II,  pp.  5-8.  The  courageous  defense  of  the  nude  in  art  here 
given  provoked  sharp  passage  of  arms  with  a  writer  in  the  Mobile  Herald;  see  "A  Question 
of  Propriety"  above. 

*Cy.  Whitman's  description  of  his  duties  in  the  Crescent  office,  post,  II,  p.  78. 

8  From  the  Daily  Crescent,  March  14,  1848. 


i92  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Take  away  this,  and  there  is  no  need  (in  the  cases  under  dis- 
cussion) of  any  objection  at  all.  Eve  in  Paradise — or  Adam 
either1 — would  not  be  supposed  to  shock  the  mind.  Neither 
would  the  sight  of  those  inhabitants  of  the  Pacific  Islands, 
whose  nakedness  is,  or  was,  the  innocent  and  usual  custom. 
Neither  does  the  sight  of  youth,  among  us  or  anywhere  else. 
And,  so  stern  and  commanding  is  the  potency  of  genius,  even 
over  the  vulgar,  neither  do  copies  of  the  Venus  de  Medicis; 
for  the  prude  dare  not  open  his  mouth  against  what  the  world, 
for  many  a  year,  has  pronounced  divine.  It  is  only  when  people 
will  try  hard  to  think  exclusively  of  what  they  assume  to  be  a 
grossness  intended,  that  they  are  "shocked"  at  such  spec- 
tacles. But  would  not  a  woman  of  sense,  (to  say  nothing  of  a 
man  of  sense,  whose  delicacies  are  not  supposed  to  be  so 
super-refined,)  even  if  her  education  has  been  rigid  in  this  re- 
spect, do  better  to  take  it  for  granted  that  no  grossness  is  in- 
tended? Is  there  any  absolute  need  of  directing  the  mind  in 
the  worser  way  ? 

Amid  all  the  works  of  that  Power  which,  in  the  most  stupen- 
ous  systems  and  the  smallest  objects  in  them,  shows  such  un- 
speakable harmony  and  perfection,  nothing  can  compare  with 
the  human  master-piece,  his  closing  and  crowning  work!  It  is  a 
master-piece  in  itself,  not  as  it  is  furbelowed  off  by  the  milliner 
and  tailor.2  Nor  would  it  be  altogether  uninteresting  to  pur- 
sue the  inquiry  how  far  artificial  ideas  on  the  subject  of  swad- 
dling this  work,  so  much  in  vogue  among  civilized  nations — and 
barring  off  the  contemplation  of  its  noble  and  beautiful  pro- 
portions— how  far,  we  say,  these  practices  may  have  aided  in 
the  effect  of  diminishing  the  average  amplitude  and  majesty  of 
the  form,  which  effect  must  be  confessed  to  when  comparing 
present  times  with  the  age  of  the  old  Grecians  and  Latins. 

As  for  the  Model  Artists,  we  know  excellent  women,  and 
men,  too,  who  have  attended  their  performances  with  rational 
gratification.  We  have  witnessed  them3  with  the  like  result. 
It  is  somewhat  a  matter  of  taste,  however;  and  we  do  not  wish 
to  quarrel  with  anybody  because  his  taste  differs  from  ours. 
In  conclusion,  it  may  be  well  to  state  that  there  are  perhaps,  in 
bye-places,    exaggerated    exhibitions    of   these    groupings — as 

»Itwas  obviously  reasoning  such  as  this  which  suggested  to  Whitman  the  collective 
title  for  his  poems  of  sex  and  nakedness,  "Children  of  Adam."  Cf.  "Complete  Prose," 
pp.  296-300. 

*Cf.  post,  I,  pp.  245-246. 

*Cf.  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  440. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  193 

gluttony  or  drunkenness  is  the  depravity  of  a  wholesome  appe- 
tite. Such,  from  what  we  hear,  are  so  abominable  as  to  be 
beneath  even  the  merit  of  condemnation.1 


THE  HABITANTS  OF  HOTELS2 

There  is  no  actual  need  of  a  man's  travelling  around  the 
globe  in  order  to  find  out  a  few  of  the  principles  of  human  na- 
ture. The  observer  needn't  even  go  to  a  college  or  a  primary 
school,  but  if  he  is  determined  to  supply  himself  with  knowledge, 
let  him  visit  the  precincts  of  some  of  our  "first-rate,  tip  [-top]" 
bar-rooms  on  Saturday  or  Sunday  night.3 

The  young  gentleman  with  the  shiny  black  coat  and  the 
unexceptionable  pantaloons  is  the  very  pink  of  propriety.  He 
is  very  particular  about  the  quality  of  the  crepe  that  he  wears 
upon  his  hat,  and  is  excessively  fond  of  mild  Havana  segars. 
He  invariably  uses  a  toothbrush  with  an  ivory  handle,  and  is 
partial  to  watering-places  in  the  summer-time,  and  gambling 
houses  when  the  "Norwegian  season"  takes  place.  A  large 
diamond  brest-pin  and  a  massive  gold  chain  attached  to  a  gal- 
vanized watch  are  generally  his  ornaments.  The  cockpit  for 
him  is  a  favorite  place  of  resort,  and  he  occasionally  "splurges" 
himself  at  a  game  of  cards.  When  the  yellow  fever  season  com- 
mences, the  gentleman  in  question  darts  like  an  arrow  north- 
ward, and  spends  his  summer  at  Saratoga  or  Niagara  Falls. 

Now  yonder  is  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  seems  to  desire  to 
bite  the  head  off  a  gold-mounted  cane.  By  way  of  varying  his 
mode  of  enjoyment,  he  occasionally  twirls  his  watch-seal  and 
about  twice  in  every  half  hour  motions  the  bar-keeper  to  mix 
him  a  brandy  toddy.  Gentlemen  of  this  class  generally  live  in 
the  West,  in  South  America,  or  Mexico.  This  description  of 
gentlemen  are  generally  adepts  in  all  matters  pertaining  to 
horse-flesh,  and  in  the  selection  of  Bowie  knives  and  shooting- 
galleries,    are    philosophers    "beyond    compare."     Their   con- 

xThe  Herald  writer  returns  to  the  attack,  insisting  on  discussing  the  matter  as  it  re- 
lates to  the  voluptuous  passions.  To  Whitman  this  seems  to  beg  the  point  and  he  re- 
fuses, ending  his  part  in  the  discussion  with  this  curt  dismissal:  "He  or  she  is  the  best 
conservator  of  purity  who  starts  from  the  point  of  the  innate  purity  of  nature;  it  is  only 
the  vulgar  who  draft  coarse  ideas  thereon.  Shall  the  Arts  be  brought  to  the  test  of 
such  ideas?    Shall  the  high  come  down  to  the  low?" 

2  From  the  Bail)  Crescent ',  March  10, 1848. 

zCf.  infra,  p.  148;,  post,  II,  pp.  103,  221, passim. 


i94  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

versational  powers  are  generally  devoted  to  descriptions  of 
duels,  awful  conflicts  by  sea  and  land,  and  stories  of  how  bluff 
old  Major  So-and-So  gave  a  terrible  flogging  to  Col.  This-and- 
That  more  than  twenty  years  ago. 

How  gracefully  he  leans  back  in  his  chair,  and  what  a  "Count 
D'Orsay"1  fling  there  is  to  his  blue  broadcloth  cloak!  How 
beautifully  the  gold  spectacles  set  upon  his  pallid  proboscis! — 
and  his  teeth — why,  bless  us!  they  glisten  like  pearls.  See,  he 
inserts  a  silver  tooth-pick  between  the  interstices  of  his  ivories, 
and  smiles  as  though  he  felt  extremely  happy.  What  can  he  be 
thinking  of?  A  theory  on  the  principle  of  gravitation — some 
beautiful  idea  collated  from  the  philosophy  of  Emanuel  Sweden- 
borg,2  or  the  price  of  putty?  Of  neither — he  is  thinking  of 
nothing  but  the  extraction  of  corns,  of  Mesmerism,  and  the 
consequences  of  chloroform.  The  gentleman  alluded  to  will 
make  money,  buy  a  big  seal  ring,  cultivate  an  imperial,  go  to 
Europe,  get  dubbed  a  Professor  of  almost  anything  in  the  way  of 
Science  or  Art,  bring  a  troupe  of  "Model  Artists"3  across  the 
Atlantic,  and  become  the  "lion  of  the  day." 

That  young  man  with  the  bandy  legs  who  is  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  stove  has  just  arrived  from  New  York.  He  prides 
himself  upon  the  neatness  of  the  tie  of  his  crimson  neck-cloth, 
and  professes  to  be  a  connoisseur  in  everything  relating  to  pea- 
nuts. Whilst  he  puffs  the  smoke  of  a  remarkably  bad  segar 
directly  underneath  your  nostrils,  he  will  discourse  most  learn- 
edly about  the  classical  performances  in  the  Chatham  Theatre,4 
and  swear  by  some  heathen  god  or  goddess  that  "Kirby5  was 
one  of  'em,  and  no  mistake."  This  is  one  of  the  "b'hoys  of  the 
Bowery."  He  strenuously  contends  that  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis 
is  a  humbug — that  Mike  Walsh6  is  a  "hoss,"7  and  that  the 

Alfred  D'Orsay  (1801-1852),  a  French  leader  of  fashion. 

*  Probably  Whitman  knew  something  already  of  the  Swedish  mystic.  Cf.  post,  II, 
pp.  16-18. 

*Cf.infra,ipp.  191-193. 

«In  New  York. 

6James  Hudson  Kirby  (1819-1848),  an  actor  in  Shakespearean  and  melodramatic 
roles,  who  made  his  American  debut  in  1840,  went  to  London  in  1845  and  became  a 
popular  idol  at  the  Surrey  Theatre,  and  died  about  the  time  of  his  intended  return  to 
America. 

"Michael  Walsh,  popularly  known  as  "Mike"  Walsh,  was  an  ordinary  carter  who  by 
means  of  his  gifts  as  an  orator  and  his  fearless  championship  of  the  rights  of  the  masses 
in  Tammany  Hall  and  elsewhere,  became  a  "Locofoco"  leader  and  a  member  of  Con- 
gress. (See  "Sketches  of  the  Speeches  and  Writings  of  Michael  Walsh  including  his 
Poems  and  Correspondence,"  New  York,  1843.) 

7"A  man  remarkable  for  his  strength,  courage,  etc.  .  A  vulgarism  peculiar  to  the 
West."     (Bartlett,  "Dictionary  of  Americanisms,"  p.  298.) 


/ 

I 

^»- 

/ 

*J ; 

• 


J^ 


J 


DRAWINGS    FROM    A    WHITMAN    NOTEBOOK 

Of  the  Pfaffian  days,  probably  from  Whitman's  own  pencil.  The 
sketch  and  the  caricature  at  the  left,  at  least,  are  studies  of  the 
poet  himself. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  195 

Brigadier1  "ain't  no  where."  The  great  probability  is  that  the 
"b'hoy"2  in  question  never  saw  either  of  the  gentlemen  that  he 
attempts  to  lampoon.  The  vista  of  his  imagination  certainly 
does  not  extend  beyond  Baton  Rouge. 

A  hickory  stick  and  a  hickory  soul — both  are  stern  and  stal- 
wart— both  are  firm  and  honest.  Commend  us  to  the  old  grey- 
haired  farmer,  whose  withered  fingers  grasp  with  an  iron  clutch 
his  trusty  cane!  Who  would  believe  it?  That  old  man  is  the 
father  of  a  Senator!  He  subscribes  for  the  Union  and  Na- 
tional Intelligencer,  and  many  a  times  his  eyes  are  brightened 
with  the  "silver  tears  of  joy,"  when  he  hears  the  name  of  his 
first-born  mentioned.  The  cultivation  of  potatoes  and  turnips, 
the  threshing  of  the  little  stock  of  wheat,  and  the  sale  of  the 
little  field  of  corn,  brought  money  to  send  the  son  to  college. 
Intense  energy,  application  to  study,  determination  and  indus- 
try made  the  farmer's  son  a  shining  light  amongst  his  fellows. 
The  good  old  farmer!  his  son  discusses  questions  of  the  greatest 
importance  at  Washington — tells  Robert  Peel  and  John  Russell 
that  they  are  entirely  wrong — cautions  Louis  Philippe  against 
some  European  policy,  and  requests  Prince  Metternich  to  be 
upon  his  guard  lest  he  should  fail  in  his  diplomatic  conclusions. 
Turnips  and  talent — potatoes  and  politics — "pumpkins"  (some) 
and  professions! 

The  parlor  of  the  hotel  we  will  not  enter,  but  when  we  have 
a  pen,  virgin — so  far  as  ink  is  concerned — any  quantity  of  satin 
paper  with  gilded  edges,  and  a  few  gallons  of  cologne,  we  shall 
endeavor  to  describe  the  peculiarities  of  those  chosen  mortals 
who  will  live  above  board — or,  at  least  above  the  bar-room. 


HERO  PRESIDENTS3 

In  all  ages  of  the  world  glory  and  power  have  been  rewards 
of  the  successful  warrior.  Among  the  wandering  tribes  of  the 
steppes  of  Tartary  and  sands  of  Arabia,  as  well  as  among  the 
polished  people  of  western  Europe,  and  the  naked  savages  of 
North  America,  the  best  soldier  has  always  been  recognized  as 
the  first  man  of  his  time.     At  this  late  epoch  of  the  world  it 

1l  have  been  unable  to  discover  whom  Whitman  had  in  mind. 

2  A  slang  term  of  the  period  meaning,  apparently,  a  second-rate  "  fast "  young  man.  It 
was  also  used  as  a  designation  for  the  younger  men  in  the  Tammany  organization, 
though  there  it  was  spelled  in  the  ordinary  way. 

3  From  the  Daily  Crescent,  March  IX,  1848. 


196    THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

would  be  idle  to  try  to  change  public  opinion  as  to  the  uncom- 
mon merits  of  a  man  who  has  skilfully  led  the  armies  of  his 
country  against  her  enemies — who  has  never  fought  but  against 
fearful  odds,  and  yet  has  always  been  victorious.  Nor  do  we 
wish  to  lessen  the  admiration  for  superior  generalship  and  skill 
in  the  conduct  of  war.  A  long  experience  teaches  us  that  it  is 
man's  nature  to  praise  and  exalt  the  virtues  and  qualities  which 
make  up  the  character  of  the  triumphant  hero;  and  as  we  indulge 
in  no  visionary  hopes  of  remodelling  human  nature,  we  desire 
rather  to  direct  its  propensities  into  proper  channels  than  to 
dam  them  up  or  destroy  them  altogether.  To  turn  the  spread- 
ing branches  of  human  passions  into  new  and  proper  directions 
is  the  aim  of  the  philosopher  and  philanthropist;  to  cut  down  the 
tree  or  tear  it  up  by  the  roots  is  the  attempt  of  the  dreamer  and 
the  fool. 

He  is  but  a  poor  lawgiver  who  legislates  only  for  the  reason 
and  understanding,  without  remembering  that  men  are  also 
endowed  with  the  faculties  of  imagination.  "Let  me  make  the 
ballads  of  a  nation  and  I  will  make  its  laws," x  was  a  declara- 
tion suggested  by  the  fact  that  the  reasons  of  men  are  inferior 
to  and  under  the  control  of  their  imaginations.  It  is  a  common 
observation  that  in  early  ages  and  among  savage  tribes,  the 
poet,  the  priest  and  the  warrior  exercise  more  influence  over 
men's  minds  than  the  statesman  and  legislator;  but  this  re- 
mark is  generally  qualified  by  saying  that  as  knowledge  and 
civilization  advance,  the  power  of  the  latter  increases  while 
that  of  the  former  diminishes.  But  is  man's  nature  changed, 
either  by  a  progress  from  the  savage  to  the  civilized  state,  or 
by  a  relapse  from  civilization  to  savagism?  Believing  that  the 
man  is  always  stronger  than  the  circumstances  which  surround 
him — that  his  nature  is  bounded  by  a  circle  beyond  which  the 
forces  of  matter  cannot  thrust  him — we  cannot  suppose  that 
the  relative  strength  of  reason  and  imagination  is  at  all  modified 
by  the  chances  and  changes  of  what  we  choose  to  denominate 
civilization  and  refinement.  No!  Man  is  the  same  in  all  his 
essential  qualities — in  the  power  of  his  reason  and  the  vigor 
of  his  imagination — whether  he  struts  in  pantaloons  or  stalks 
in  all  the  dignity  and  grace  of  primeval  nakedness. 

*"I  knew  a  very  wise  man  that  believed  that  if  a  man  were  permitted  to  make  all 
the  ballads,  he  need  not  care  who  should  make  the  laws  of  a  nation."  Andrew  Fletcher 
of  Saltoun,  in  a  letter  to  the  Marquis  of  Montrose.  (Bartlett,  "Familiar  Quotations," 
ioth  edition,  p.  281.) 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  197 

So  long,  then,  as  men  are  men,  will  they  continue  to  love 
the  pride,  pomp  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war — so  long 
will  they  admire  the  leaders  of  armies  and  the  gainers  of  vic- 
tories. Quakerism  can  never  become  the  creed  of  the  race; 
and  you  might  as  well  expect  all  men  to  adopt  the  straight-cut 
coat  and  plain  phraseology  of  the  followers  of  Fox,  as  to  hope 
that  the  principles  of  peace  will  ever  become  the  law  of  men's 
opinions  and  actions.  Is  it  to  be  supposed  that  the  framers 
of  our  constitution  ever  made  such  a  chimera  the  basis  of  our 
civil  liberties?  Can  we  believe  that  the  sagacity  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Convention  had  not  more  correctly  perceived  the 
true  nature  of  man  than  to  create  for  him  a  Government  inca- 
pable of  enduring  all  the  attacks  of  the  ordinary  passions  of  man- 
kind? Much  as  the  benevolent  heart  of  Franklin  might  have 
wished  for  the  arrival  of  the  second  golden  age,  when  the  "lion 
and  the  lamb  shall  lie  down  together,"  and  men  will  dwell  with 
each  other  in  peace  and  harmony,  could  his  practical  under- 
standing have  sanctioned  a  system  of  Government  whose  ex- 
istence would  be  endangered  by  the  expression  of  one  of  the 
strongest  and  most  decided  tendencies  of  our  minds?  Let 
us  rather  believe  that  our  constitution  was  framed  by  those 
who  understood  human  nature  as  thoroughly  as  any  set  of 
statesmen  ever  did;  that  they  were  men  not  only  deeply  read  in 
the  lessons  of  the  past,  but  also  profoundly  observant  of  the  facts 
of  the  present.  They  had  not  only  meditated  the  words  of 
sages  and  philosophers;  their  souls  had  also  been  kindled  to  a 
glow  by  the  inspiration  of  the  bards  who  sang  the  glories  and 
triumphs  of  combat.  Many  of  them  had  been  actors  in  the 
field  as  well  as  in  the  cabinet;  and  he  who  presided  over  them 
was  "first  in  war"  as  well  as  "first  in  peace  and  first  in  the 
hearts  of  his  countrymen."1 

We  are  not,  then,  of  those  who  think  of  the  permanency  of 
our  institutions  as  at  all  threatened  by  our  disposition  to  admire 
great  generals  and  elevate  them  to  the  Presidency.  It  is  the 
very  practical  nature  of  our  government — its  capability  of 
adaptation  to  all  states  and  phases  of  the  human  mind — its 
perfect  fitness  for  man  as  he  is,  independent  of  any  ideal  condi- 
tions at  which  he  may  hope  to  arrive — that  enables  us  to  feel  se- 
cure during  the  highest  excitement  of  the  whole  people.  No 
matter  whether  the  nation  be  violently  agitated  by  the  spirit 
of  party,  or  deeply  moved  by  the  feeling  of  gratitude  which 

1  Henry  Lee's  "Eulogy  on  Washington,"  December  26, 1799. 


198  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

prompts  it  to  bestow  the  highest  honors  on  him  who  has 
gallantly  led  the  armies  of  the  republic,  we  have  full  confidence 
in  the  power  of  the  constitution  to  outlive  any  gust  of  passion 
or  feeling.1  The  wisest  man  is  often  provoked  to  anger,  and 
daily  weeps  his  inability  to  govern  his  appetites  and  passions; 
but  the  storms  of  passion  are  transient,  and  when  they  pass 
away  leave  his  wisdom  high  and  pure  like  a  mountain-top  seen 
in  the  distance,  and  serving  as  a  guide  for  the  traveller. 

But  while  we  have  none  of  those  fears  by  which  others  are 
actuated  when  lamenting  the  tendency  of  the  American  people 
to  elevate  military  chieftains  to  the  Presidency,  we  sincerely 
deprecate  the  effort  to  raise  any  man  to  that  high  office,  merely 
because  he  has  shown  courage  and  skill  in  manoeuvring  men, 
horses,  and  cannon.  To  be  sure,  it  is  no  despicable  talent 
which  enables  a  man  to  exercise  these  faculties — the  rather  in- 
ferior qualities  of  even  a  general — with  tact  and  success.  We 
may  assume,  if  you  please,  that  the  same  capacity  for  adminis- 
tration is  requisite  in  the  head  of  an  army  as  in  the  head  of  a 
people,  though  the  assumption  is  falsified  by  many  and  great 
examples  in  history  not  a  hundred  years  back.  We  will  admit 
that  all  the  moral  and  intellectual  requisites  of  a  President  may 
be  found  in  a  good  general — that  the  general  has  the  quick  per- 
ception, the  sure  yet  rapid  judgment,  the  firm  will,  the  steady 
devotion  to  the  public  good  so  necessary  in  a  President  of  the 
United  States.  Still,  we  cannot  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that 
it  is  always  best  to  make  a  President  out  of  such  a  general. 
For  to  do  so  is,  in  some  measure,  to  turn  from  its  proper  use  the 
high  office  created  by  our  fathers  for  certain  great  purposes. 
It  is  to  change  into  an  office  of  reward  for  military  merit  that 
which  was  intended  for  a  place  of  duty  and  labor.  The 
President  has  certain  functions  assigned  him  by  the  Constitu- 
tion— functions  arduous  and  difficult.  His  Excellency's  chair 
is  a  hard  and  thorny  seat — not  a  couch  wreathed  round  with 
laurels,  on  which  the  soldier  may  recline  after  the  toils  and 
struggles  of  a  successful  campaign.  While  then  we  have  no 
fear  of  a  general  ever  using  the  Presidency  as  a  means  of  over- 
turning our  free  institutions,  we  have  a  great  disinclination  to 
turning  the  White  House  into  a  sort  of  Pension  Palace,  to 
which  our  triumphant  generals  may  retire  and  amuse  them- 
selves and  the  country  with  four  years  administration  of  our 
Federal  government. 

xCf.  infrat  pp.  159-160. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN      '  199 

SKETCHES  OF  THE  SIDEWALKS  AND  LEVEES;  WITH 

GLIMPSES  INTO  THE  NEW  ORLEANS  BAR  (ROOMS) 

PETER  FUNK,  ESQ.1 

To  illustrate  the  "life,  fortune,  and  sacred  honor"  of  the 
distinguished  individual  whose  name  heads  off  our  present 
sketch  of  noted  characters,  is  a  task  as  tasteful  as  it  is  agree- 
able. The  duty  of  the  faithful  chronologist  and  biographer  is 
particularly  a  cheerful  one  when  the  subject  of  such  notice  is 
calculated  to  heighten  the  interest  we  feel  in  the  dignity  and 
delicate  sensibilities  of  human  nature. 

Funk,  like  all  other  illustrious  personages  who  have  become  so 
well  known,  as  no  longer  to  need  the  titulary  soubriquet  of 
Mister,  was  born  and  brought  up — no  one  knows  where:  at 
least  the  information  we  have  on  this  point  is  exceedingly  un- 
certain and  contradictory.  Without,  therefore,  descending  into 
the  particulars  of  his  early  training  and  history,  or  minutely 
tracing  up  the  rationale  of  cause  and  effect,  by  showing  that  a 
youth  of  moral  proclivity  will,  in  time,  run  into  that  species 
of  moral  gum-elasticity  which  goes  to  constitute  the  blood  and 
bones  of  individuals  comprising  his  genus,  we  shall  proceed  at 
once,  in  medias  res,  as  the  boys  say  at  college,  and  make  known 
to  you,  gentle  reader,  that  Peter  Funk  is  a  young  gentleman 
"about  town"  who  holds  the  highly  responsible  office  of  by- 
bidder  in  a  Mock  Auction — being  engaged  to  said  work  by  "  the 
man  wot  sells  the  watches." 

You're  a  gentleman  of  leisure  about  New  Orleans,  may  be, 
stranger,  and  lounging  about street.  You  hear  the  musi- 
cal sound  of  the  "human  voice  divine,"  crying  out  "fivenaff, 
five-n-aff — only  going  at  twenty-five  dollars  and-n-a-ff  for  this 
elegant  gold  watch  and  chain,  in  prime  running  order,  just 
sent  in  by  a  gentleman  leaving  town,  and  only  five-n-aff!  Did  I 
hear  you  say  six,  sir?" 

Perhaps  you  drop  in,  and  if  you  are  not  careful  how  you  look 
at  the  musical  auctioneer  he  will  accept  of  your  look  for  a  wink, 

^rom  the  Daily  Crescent,  March  13, 1848. 

"  Decoys  at  mock  auctions  are  called  Peter  Funk.  .  .  .  It  is  an  open  question  as 
to  whether  this  name  for  a  by-bidder  was  really  borne  by  an  individual."  (John  S. 
Farmer,  in  his  "Americanisms  Old  and  New,"  London,  1889,  p.  53.)  It  is  quite  possible 
that  the  idea  of  this  sketch  was  suggested  to  Whitman  by  Asa  Greene's  "The  Perils  of 
Pearl  Street,  By  a  Late  Merchant,"  New  York,  1834.  Chapters  VII  and  XIV  deal  with 
"Peter  Funk." 


200  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

and,  according  to  the  philosophy  of  the  auction  room,  a  wink 
passes  for  a  bid,  and  you  find  yourself  in  the  nominal  possession 
of  "an  elegant  gold  watch  and  chain,  in  prime  running  order, 
just  sent  in  to  be  sold  by  a  gentleman  leaving  town,"  before 
you  are  well  aware  of  what  you  are  about.  So  take  care  how  you 
look  when  you  are  in  the  patent  auction  shops.  There  stands 
the  auctioneer  in  all  the  serious  earnestness  of  a  man  begging  for 
his  life,  and,  with  voice  and  looks  and  gestures,  seems  like  one 
speaking  sober  truth,  and  "nothin'  else."  Only  half  a  dozen 
individuals  comprise  his  audience,  and  these  half  a  dozen  are 
Peter  Funk  and  his  corps  de  reserve.  Peter  looks  somewhat 
stouter  to-day  than  he  was  yesterday,  and  has  exchanged  his 
cloth  cloak  and  cap  for  a  blanket  coat  and  chapeau  Mane,  and  his 
whiskers  have  shared  the  fate  of  "the  last  rose  of  summer" — 
that  is  to  say,  they  have  evaporated — dropped  off:  thev  are 
non  est  inventus — gone ! 

Yes,  that's  Funk  and  his  five  interesting  associates  in  busi- 
ness— "companions  of  his  toil,  his  feelings,  and  his  fame" — 
Peter  the  ist,  Peter  the  2d,  Peter  the  3d,  Peter  the  4th  and 
Peter  the  5th — he  himself  being  no  other  than  Peter  the  Great, 
or  the  Great  Peter — "Peter  Funk,  Esq." 

Now,  stranger,  take  care  what  you're  about — you're  the  only 
bona  fide  customer — if  customer  you  choose  to  call  yourself — 
that  has  entered  the  portals  of  the  auction  shop  as  yet,  and 
Peter  Funk  Primus  and  Peter  Funk  Secundus  have  done  all 
this  bidding  that  makes  the  crier  keep  up  such  a  hubbaboo. 
Well,  you  don't  know  of  this  fact,  and  you  think  "a  man's  man 
for  a'  that,"1  and  you  don't  understand  the  secret  of  Peter  Funk 
and  his  associates,  or  the  service  they're  engaged  in,  and  you 
only  see  a  fine-looking  watch,  "just  sent  in  to  be  sold  by  a  gen- 
tleman leaving  town,"  and  going  dog  cheap.  You  nod  your 
head,  and  straightway  the  countenance  of  the  crier  brightens 
up,  and  his  voice  grows  even  more  vociferous  than  before.  He's 
got  a  bid — a  real  bid — and  the  first  and  only  one.  He  tacks  on 
five  dollars  more,  and  now  he's  heard  going  it  in  fine  style: 
"Thirty,  thirty,  thirty,  thirty,  thirty — only  going  at  thirty 
dollars  for  a  splendid  elegant  gold  lever,  with  seventeen  pairs 
of  extra  jewels,  lately  imported,  and  now  must  be  sold ! " 

He  cries  on  at  this  rate  for  perhaps  ten  minutes,  occasionally 
casting  a  glance  at  the  passers-by  to  see  if  any  greeneys  can  be 
tolled  in.     Peter  Funk  takes  the  watch  in  his  hand  and  examines 

^rom  Burns's  "A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That." 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  201 

it  attentively,  and  with  a  very  significant  look,  as  though  his 
judgment  was  perfectly  satisfied,  he  says  deliberately,  "Thirty- 
five!" 

"Against  you,  sir,"  cries  Mr.  Auctioneer,  and  forthwith  sets 
off  with  unusual  volubility,  crying  out  ore  rotundo,  "thirty- 
five,  thirty-five — only  going  at  thirty-five!" 

"Thirty-five  dollars  for  such  an  elegant  gold  watch  is  cer- 
tainly cheap  as  dirt — they  ask  eighty-five  or  ninety  at  the 
stores";  and  as  these  thoughts  revolve  in  your  mind,  you  think 
you  might  as  well  make  five  and  twenty  dollars  as  well  as  not, 
as  there  are  plenty  of  boys  up  in  your  county  who  would  jump 
at  the  bargain — and  you  nod  again,  the  auctioneer  having  in 
the  meantime  directed  the  whole  force  of  his  vocable  artillery 
at  you,  and  launched  forth  in  such  a  rigamarole  of  praise  of 
said  time-piece  that  you  couldn't  well  resist  his  very  passionate 
appeal. 

"Forty  dollars!"  is  quickly  caught  up.  "Only  going  at  forty 
dollars! — forty!  forty!  forty!  forty!"  and  now  the  cryer  turns 
to  Peter,  the  interesting  Peter,  whose  turn  for  serious  deliberation 
has  again  come.  He  again  examines  the  watch,  turns  it  over 
and  over  again,  and,  as  he  hands  it  up  to  the  cryer,  says,  in  a 
very  low  but  decided  tone  of  voice,  "forty-five!" 

By  this  time  one  or  two  other  loungers  like  yourself  have 
dropped  in,  and  monsieur  cryer  applies  himself  with  exceeding 
earnestness  in  lauding  the  watch,  as  never,  sure,  watch  was 
lauded  before,  except  perhaps  at  a  patent  auction. 

While  you  are  revolving  in  your  mind  whether  "to  go"  the 
fifty,  some  other  greeney  from  one  of  the  upper  parishes,  or  may- 
be from  Mississippi,  with  his  pockets  full  of  money,  cries  out 
"fifty,  by  G — d!"  and  you  are  relieved  from  what  would  have 
been  a  very  dear  bargain  to  you — the  invoice  price  of  said 
"elegant  gold  lever"  having  been  only  $17.50.  Like  Hodge's 
razors,  they  are  "made  to  sell,"  and  many  are  the  green  'uns 
that  are  bit,  by  the  "persuasive  speech"  of  the  auctioneer,  and 
still  more  persuasive  biddings  of  his  interesting  coadjutor  in  this 
pretty  business,  Peter  Funk,  Esq.,  the  subject  of  our  present 
"sketch." 

I  was  pretty  well  acquainted  with  Funk  before  he  went  into 
the  "auction  and  commission  business";  we  boarded  a  while 
together  at  the  same  house.  Since  his  embarkation  into  the  busi- 
ness of  buying  watches,  we  have  grown  offish  with  one  another: 
he  never  knows  me  in  the  auction  room,  though  we  may  be 


202  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

standing  side  by  side;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  hardly  know  him 
half  the  time  in  the  various  disguises  he  assumes,  for  he  scarcely 
ever  dresses  the  same  for  two  days  in  succession — being  in 
cap,  cloak  and  whiskers  on  one  day,  and  the  next  aliased  up  in  a 
white  or  green  blanket.  Some  say  he  was  from  Old  Kentuck, 
and  others  again  aver  he  is  a  North  Carolina  Tennessean;  while 
"other  some"  allege  him  to  have  been  a  direct  importation 
from  the  nethermost  corner  of  Down  East — having  resided  a 
year  or  two  in  Texas  by  way  of  a  seasoning — and  that  he  is  an 
"own  cousin"  of  the  "rat  man,"  and  also  of  kin  to  him  "wot 
cleans  coat  collars."  Of  this  I  can  say  nothing — but  am  of 
opinion  that  if  ever  Peter  Funk  received  a  "fotching  up"  ac- 
cording to  old-fashioned  New  England  Puritanism,  he  must 
have  become  amazingly  warped  in  his  morals  ere  he  reached  the 
latitude  of  Louisiana. 

To  sum  up  the  character  I  have  to  give  of  Peter  Funk,  I  shall 
simply  say  that  he  at  present  thrives  well,  and  will  make  a 
business  man  of  himself  if  he  keeps  on.  He  is  one  of  those  men 
who  reverse  the  saying  of  Hamlet,  that  "conscience  makes 
cowards  of  us  all."1  Peter's  conscience  makes  no  coward  of 
him — argaly  Peter '11  be  rich  one  of  these  days.  It's  a  bad  thing 
to  have 

"The  native  hue  of  resolution 
Thus  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought."2 

and  Peter  takes  none  of  these  sickly  thoughts,  or  any  other  con- 
sideration, "for  the  morrow,"  except  it  be  what  coat  or  what 
colored  whiskers  he  shall  put  on. 


MISS  DUSKY  GRISETTE3 

Miss  Dusky  Grisette  is  the  young  "lady"  who  takes  her 
stand  of  evenings  upon  the  pavement  opposite  the  St.  Charles 
Hotel,  for  the  praiseworthy  purpose  of  selling  a  few  flowers  by 
retail,  showing  ofT  her  own  charms  meanwhile,  in  a  wholesale 
manner.     She  drives  a  thriving  trade  when  the  evenings  are 

i"Hamlet",  III,  i,  83. 

» Ibidem,  III,  I,  84-85. 

3  From  the  Daily  Crescent,  March  16,  1848. 

Cf.post,  II,  p.  185. 

Horace  Traubel  reports  ("With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  II, p.  283)  Whitman  as 
saying  of  this  type  of  New  Orleans  society:  "I  have  been  in  New  Orleans— known, 
seen,  all  its  peculiar  phases  of  life.     Of  course  my  report  would  be  forty  years  old  or  so. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  203 

pleasant.  Her  neat  basket  of  choice  bouquets  sits  by  her  side, 
and  she  has  a  smile  and  a  wink  for  every  one  of  the  passers-by 
who  have  a  wink  and  a  smile  for  her. 

Mademoiselle  Grisette  was  "raised"  in  the  city,  and  is  pretty 
well  known  as  a  very  pretty  marchande  des  fleurs.  She  can 
recommend  a  tasteful  bunch  of  posies  with  all  the  grace  in  the 
world,  and  her  "buy  a  broom"  style  of  addressing  her  acquaint- 
ance has,  certainly,  something  very  taking  about  it.  She 
possesses  pretty  eyes,  a  pretty  chin,  and  a  mouth  that  many  an 
heiress,  grown  oldish  and  faded,  would  give  thousands  for.  The 
em  bon  point  of  her  form  is  full  of  attraction,  and  she  dresses 
with  simple  neatness  and  taste.  She  keeps  her  eyes  open  and 
her  mouth  shut,  except  it  be  to  show  her  beautiful  teeth — 
ah,  her's  are  teeth  that  are  teeth.  She  has  sense  enough  to 
keep  her  tongue  quiet,  and  discourses  more  by  "silence  that 
speaks  and  eloquence  of  eyes"  than  any  other  method — herein 
she  is  prudent. 

Grisette  is  not  "a  blue"  by  any  means,  rather  a  brune,  or, 
more  prettily,  a  brunette — "but  that's  not  much,"1  the  Vermil- 
lion of  her  cheeks  shows  through  the  veil,  and  her  long  glossy 
hair  is  nearly  straight.  There  are  many  who  affect  the  brune 
rather  than  the  blonde^  at  least  when  they  wish  to  purchase  a 
bouquet — and  as 

"Night 
Shows  stars  and  women  in  a  better  light,"2 

they  have  a  pleasant  smile  and  a  bewitching  glance  thrown  into 
the  bargain  whilst  purchasing  a  bunch  of  posies. 

What  becomes  of  the  flower-girl  in  the  day  time  would  be 
hard  to  tell:  perhaps  it  would  be  in  bad  taste  to  attempt  to  find 

The  Octaroon  was  not  a  whore,  a  prostitute,  as  we  call  a  certain  class  of  women  here — 
and  yet  was  too:  a  hard  class  to  comprehend:  women  with  splendid  bodies — no  bustles, 
no  corsets,  no  enormities  of  any  sort:  large,  luminous,  rich  eyes:  face  a  rich  olive:  habits 
indolent,  yet  not  lazy  as  we  define  laziness  North:  fascinating,  magnetic,  sexual,  ignorant, 
illiterate:  always  more  than  pretty — 'pretty'  is  too  weak  a  word  to  apply  to  them."  He 
goes  on  to  express  the  opinion  that  race  amalgamation  in  the  South  is  unlikely. 

In  revealing  his  growing  sensitiveness  to  woman's  physical  beauty,  a  sensitiveness 
which  had  cropped  out  in  more  than  one  Eagle  editorial,  Whitman  not  only  reflects  the 
influence  of  his  new  and  romantic  environment,  but  also  reveals  how  far  he  has  travelled 
from  the  Jamaica  days  in  which  he  could  declare  his  absolute  ignorance  of  woman  {see 
infra,  p.  37).  That  the  "caresser  of  life"  here  dominates  the  puritan  appears  from  the 
substitution  of  a  romantic  or  a  satirical  attitude  for  the  youthful  and  unrelenting  serious- 
ness which  underlay  most  of  his  previous  writing. 

lCf.  "yet  that's  not  much,"  "Othello,"  III,  3. 
Byron's  "Don  Juan,"  Canto  II,  Stanza  152. 


2o4  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

out.  She  is  only  interesting  in  character  and  association. 
Standing  at,  or  reclining  against,  the  door-cheeks  of  a  store, 
with  the  brilliancy  of  the  gas  light  falling  favorably,  and  per- 
haps deceptively,  upon  her  features  and  upon  her  person,  with 
her  basket  of  tasteful  bouquets  at  her  feet,  and  some  of  the 
choicest  buds  setting  off  her  own  head-dress.  As  such  she  looks 
in  character  as  a  jolie  grisette,  as  she  is,  and  will  excite  the 
notice  of  those  who,  beneath  the  light  of  the  sun,  and  in  the 
noontide  gaze  of  men,  would  spurn  and  loathe  such  familiari- 
ties. Poor  Grisette  therefore  slinks  away  to  some  retired  hole 
or  corner  when  the  witching  hours  of  gas  light  have  passed  by, 
and  when  the  walkers  upon  the  streets  have  grown  tired  of 
wandering,  and  with  noise,  [and]  have  thrown  themselves  upon 
their  beds  for  repose.  She  sells  her  flowers,  and  barters  off 
sweet  looks  for  sweeter  money;  and  with  her  empty  basket 
upon  her  head,  she  takes  up  "the  line  of  march"  for  her  humble 
home,  along  with  "daddy"  who,  being  ever  upon  the  safe  look- 
out, has  come  for  her. 

Perhaps,  in  the  morning,  she  sells  coffee  at  one  of  the  street 
corners,  to  the  early  draymen,  who  have  an  appetite  for  the 
regaling  draft — becoming  "all  things  to  all  men"  in  changing 
tout  a  fait  her  set  of  customers.  In  this  last  employment,  she 
sylph-like  puts  on  the  air  and  manner  of  drudgery.  Habited  in 
a  plain  frock,  with  a  check  apron,  and  with  her  head  "bound 
about"  by  a  cotton  handkerchief,  she  retails  bad  coffee  at  a 
picayune  a  cup,  with  an  air  of  nonchalance  entirely  suited  to  the 
calling  and  to  the  customers.  Hard-working  men  like  draymen, 
want  coffee  and  not  glances — they  need  the  stomach  and  not 
the  appetite  to  be  feasted.  Grisette,  therefore,  acts  well  her 
part.  Flowers  and  fancy  for  the  upper  ten  thousand,  in  the 
glow  and  excitement  of  evening  and  gas-light — but  neither  airs 
nor  graces  attend  her,  nor  do  flowers  deck  her  hair  as,  by  day- 
light, in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  she  repairs  to  her  accustomed 
stand,  with  her  tin  coffee  urn  upon  her  head.1 

During  the  day,  perhaps  she  assists  her  mother,  in street, 

who  is  a  very  respectable  washer-woman,  and  highly  esteemed 
for  those  exceedingly  desirable  qualifications,  namely — the 
rendering  of  linen  white  and  well  starched.     And  thus,  Made- 

1  Whitman  himself  was  fond  of  taking  his  morning  coffee  {cf.  infra,  p.  34)  at  the  old 
French  market  from  the  shining  kettle  of  a  mulatto  woman;  but  his  description  of  her 
("  Complete  Prose,"p.  440)  does  not  agree  with  his  description  of  "  Miss  Dusky  Grisette." 
Cf.  also  post>  I,  p.  213. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  205 

moiselle  Grisette  fills  up  a  very  clever  place  of  usefulness.  In- 
stead of  degenerating  into  a  mere  dowd,  as  so  many  beauties 
become  during  the  unenchanting  hours  of  day-light,  lounging 
the  time  away,  from  sofa  to  rocking-chair,  and  from  rocking- 
chair  back  to  sofa  again,  with  some  trifle  of  a  novel  in  their 
hands,  Grisette,  who  does  not  know  a  letter  in  the  book,  and  is 
thence  fortunately  secure  against  the  seductions  of  popular 
literature ',  betakes  herself,  with  hearty  good  will,  to  the  wash- 
tub;  and  they  do  say  that  her  cousin  Marie  and  herself  have 
rare  fun  whilst  splashing  among  the  suds,  in  detailing  the  numer- 
ous conquests  they  (poor  things!)  supposed  [themselves]  to  have 
made  in  the  flower  market  the  evening  before. 


DAGGERDRAW  BOWIEKNIFE,  ESQ.1 

It  is  almost  with  fear  and  trembling,  "I  take  my  pen  in  hand," 
to  attempt  the  portraiture  of  this  fearful  son  of  Mars,  whose 
very  name  is  almost  enough  to 

Freeze  my  young  blood, 


Make  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end, 
Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine."8 

We  do  not  say  that  our  hero  lives  in  New  Orleans  now,  but 
he  "used  to  did,"  and  that's  enough  for  a  chap  whose  business 
it  is  to  make  "Sketches."  He  lived  here  once  upon  a  time,  and 
flourished  extensively — went  to  the  Legislature  and  to  Con- 
gress, for  aught  we  know — that  is,  the  Congress  of  Texas,  while 
that  "lone  star"  was  shining  with  bedimmed  lustre  in  the  politi- 
cal firmament. 

Squire  Bowieknife  emigrated,  some  years  ago,  to  a  village 
in  Mississippi  from  one  of  the  Carolinas.  He  was  a  limb  of 
the  law,  and  by  dint  of  an  abundance  of  swagger,  in  a  short  time 
fought  his  way  into  notice.  There  are  parts  of  Mississippi 
where  a  man  may  graduate  into  public  favor,  through  the 
merits  of  gunpowder,  with  a  rapidity  that  is  astonishing.  It 
requires  a  peculiar  conformation  and  organization — a  fitness 
of  things,  as  it  were — to  constitute  an  individual  who  can  thrive 
upon  sharp  steel  and  patent  revolvers,  but  Bowieknife  was  the 
man,  and  "he  went  it  with  a  rush." 

1From  the  Daily  Crescent,  March  23, 1848. 
*Cf.  "Hamlet,"  I,  5, 16-20. 


206  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Thence,  he  found  his  way  to  Orleans,  and  now  has  gone  to 
Texas,  followed  by  the  ghosts  of  no  less  than  six  hale,  hearty 
men,  at  least,  that  were  such  before  his  "bloody-minded" 
shooting  irons  made  daylight  shine  through  them.  Never  did 
man  stand  more  upon  a  point  of  honor  than  he  did:  he  would 
cavil  upon  the  hundredth  part  of  a  hair  if  he  thought  a  bit  of  a 
fight  was  to  be  got  out  of  his  antagonist:  and  upon  the  most 
trifling  misunderstanding  in  the  world,  he  would  attack  you 
in  a  "  street  fight,"  or  "call  you  out"  and  shoot  you  down,  as 
though  your  life  were  of  no  more  value  than  a  cur  dog's.  Oh, 
he  was  a  brave  fellow,  and  people  were  afraid  of  him,  and  we 
cannot  wonder  at  it. 

But  it  so  happened,  that  the  Hon.  Daggerdraw  Bowieknife 
was  not,  by  any  manner  of  means,  so  punctual  in  meeting  his 
own  little  liabilities  as  he  was  in  being  first  upon  the  ground 
to  take  part  in  the  murderous  duel — in  other  words,  he  was  one 

of  those   "d d    highminded,    honorable,    clever    fellows," 

who  would  rather  shoot  a  man  than  pay  him  what  he  owed  him. 
There  are  such  men  in  the  world,  and  our  friend  was  one  of 
them:  they  pretend  to  be  the  very  soul  of  honor,  but  an  hon- 
est debt,  such  as  an  honest  man  would  pay  with  entire  punctual- 
ity, these  sons  of  honor  "pass  by  as  the  idle  wind,  which  they 
regard  not."1  One  day,  Daggerdraw  sallied  out  from  his  office 
to  take  a  walk  into  town.  He  was  armed  and  equipped,  though 
not  "according  to  law,"  but  he  was,  in  common  parlance,  quite 
"loaded  down  to  the  guards"  with  fashionable  killing  tools. 
In  each  pantaloons  pocket  he  carried  a  small  loaded  pistol: 
in  his  bosom,  and  within  reach,  was  the  handle  of  a  large  bowie- 
knife,  weighing  just  one  pound  and  a  half,  one  of  those  murder- 
ous weapons  more  efficient  than  the  Roman  short  sword,  and 
equally  serviceable  at  cutting  or  thrusting.  Daggerdraw  had 
done  bloody  deeds  with  it  in  both  ways,  as  more  than  one 
individual  in  Mississippi  had  experienced  to  his  sorrow.  This 
said  big  butcher-knife  had  run  the  rounds  of  several  street 
fights,  and  was  the  dearly  beloved  of  its  dreaded  owner.  Whether 
the  personal  prowess  he  displayed  in  its  use  was  a  violation  of  the 
laws  of  decency  and  humanity,  and  befitted  him  more  for  the 
society  of  desperadoes  and  professional  cut-throats,  is  alto- 
gether another  question.  No  man  doubted  the  bull-dog  courage 
of  this  disciple  of  Blackstone,  but  whether  any  of  the  sym- 

lCf.  "That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind 

Which  I  respect  not."  "Jul'us  Caesar,"  IV,  2,  77. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  207 

pathies  of  human  nature,  such  as  make  man  the  being  he  is,  had 
an  abiding  place  in  his  ferocious  heart,  is  not  for  us  to  say, 
though  it  may  well  be  supposed  there  were  none. 

Yes,  there  he  goes!  and  there  is  blood  upon  his  shirt  now,  or 
at  least  there  is  revenge  brooding  in  his  thoughts,  and  ere  long 
the  life  of  some  doomed  one  must  pay  the  forfeit.  He  is  not  a 
bad-looking  man  either,  being  gentle  enough  in  his  dress  and 
address,  but 

"There  was  a  lurking  devil  in  his  sneer, 

That  raised  emotions  both  of  hate  and  fear."1 

His  eye  was  wild  and  restless,  and  there  was  a  something  in  his 
brow  that  was  repulsive.  "And  the  Lord  set  a  mark  upon  Cain" 
— can  it  be  true  that  this  modern  Cain  had  his  mark  set  upon 
him  too?  And  yet  there  it  was,  the  stamp  and  the  impress  of 
the  cruel  heart,  legibly  fixed  in  the  very  lineaments  of  the  man's 
face,  and  no  one  loved  to  gaze  upon  him,  for  his  features  had 
that  about  them  to  freeze  the  heart  of  the  beholder. 

Why  is  it  that  a  false  sense  of  honor  requires  men  to  face  in 
deadly  combat  such  as  Daggerdraw,  it  were  hard  to  divine. 
Perhaps  they  suppose,  as  Bob  Acres2  says,  that  honor  follows 
them  to  the  grave.  We  are  of  opinion  with  Bob's  servant, 
that  this  is  the  very  place  one  might  make  shift  to  do  without 
it,  and  that  the  honor  and  applause,  such  as  it  is,  whips  over 
to  the  adversary.  Very  well:  Squire,  take  your  grand  rounds, 
and  as  you  walk  the  streets,  feel  secure  that  men  are  afraid  of 
you,  but  take  good  care  and  don't  get  afraid  of  yourself.  I've 
heard  strange  stories  about  you — how  that  you  never  sleep  o' 
nights — that  you  pace  the  long  gallery  of  your  boarding-house 
with  restless  and  uneasy  steps,  and  while  others  luxuriate  in 
the  blessings  of  "tired  nature's  sweet  restorer,"3  sleep  is  a 
stranger  to  your  eyelids.  I  have  heard  that  the  lone  and  solemn 
hour  of  midnight  is  a  terror  to  you,  and  that  the  ghosts  of  mur- 
dered Banquos  will  rise  mentally  to  your  vision,  as  a  meet 
reward  for  your  deeds  of  awful  transgression,  and  your  disre- 
gard fo  the  injunction,  "Thou  shalt  not  kill." 

Some  men  become  noted,  some  are  celebrated,  and  others, 

*A  misquotation  from  Byron's  "The  Corsair,"  Canto  I,  Stanza  ix.  It  should  read: 
"a  laughing  Devil." 

*A  swaggering  coward  in  Sheridan's  "The  Rivals."     (See  Act  iv,  Sc.  i.) 

8 Young's  "Night  Thoughts,"  Night  I,  1.  i.         Cj.  post,  I,  p.  223. 


208  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

again,  have  the  stamp  of  notoriety  fixed  to  their  names:1  such  is 
the  unenviable  condition  of  him  whom  we  have  here  sketched. 
He  has  made  his  mark  through  life,  but  it  has  been  in  the  spirit 
of  the  pestilence  and  the  destroyer. 


JOHN  J.  JINGLEBRAIN2 

The  subject  of  the  present  " Sketch"  could  never  by  any 
possible  mischance  be  considered  as  one  of  the  "B'hoys." 
"The  lines  are  fallen  to  him  in  pleasant  places,"  and  if  there  is 
any  peculiar  blessing  attached  to  "the  ton,"  Jinglebrain  has  a 
chance  to  enjoy  it. 

You  see  him  in  St.  Charles  street,  and  in  the  haunts  adja- 
cent thereto,  and  you  cannot  fail  to  notice  him  as  remarkably 
distingue  in  his  air  and  appearance.  His  coat  and  his  pants, 
his  vest  and  his  cravat,  his  hat  and  his  boots  are  all  remarkably 
"the  thing";  and  as  you  observe  him  at  10  or  12  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  as  he  issues  from  some  one  of  the  fashionable  coiffeursy 
you  would  not  be  far  from  right  in  supposing  that  he  had  just 
made  his  escape  from  under  the  lid  of  a  band  box.  His  hair  is 
"done  to  a  turn,"  and  every  individual  member  of  his  side  locks 
is  in  its  right  place,  and  is,  indeed,  as  slick  as  grease.  His 
whiskers  and  his  moustache  are  combed  and  anointed  with  some 
sweet  scented  unguent,  and  he  snuffs  the  atmosphere  of  St. 
Charles  street  as  though  the  very  breath  of  heaven  was  un- 
worthy the  patronage  of  so  much  clean  linen  and  fine  broad- 
cloth, as  well  as  a  very  extensive  swell  of  personal  pretensions. 

Some  poet  or  other — Shakspeare  I  think — makes  allusion 
to  one  having  small  pretensions  to  manhood,  that  "the  tailor 
made  him"3 — and  if  ever  any  individual  might  disclaim  ma- 
ternity from  the  common  unclean  mother  earth,  Jinglebrain  is 
that  man,  for  clean  clothes  and  bear's  grease  have  made  him 
what  he  is.  Nor  is  it  in  our  nature,  or  within  the  bounds  of  our 
present  purpose,  to  cavil  with  any  man  because  he  dresses  in  a 
seeming  and  becoming  manner;  God  forbid — for  we  ourselves 
luxuriate  in  clean  linen  and  goodly  raiment,  and  are  made  glad 

» A  paraphrase  of  "some  are  born  great,  some  achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  great- 
ness thrust  upon  'em"  {Twelfth  Night,  II,  5). 

•From  the  Daily  Crescent,  March  28, 1848. 
Cf.  infra,  pp.  162-163;  post,  I,  pp.  245-246. 

%Cf."&  tailor  made  thee,"  "  King  Lear,"  II,  2,  50. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  209 

thereby:  but  that  mortal  man  should  be  puffed  up  in  self- 
importance  because  of  his  outfit  from  his  tailor-shop,  and  affect 
a  pitiful  superiority  over  his  fellows,  solely  on  the  grounds  of  the 
fit  of  his  pants  and  the  sleekness  of  his  hair,  is  marvellously 
beneath  what  we  ought  to  expect  from  the  dignity  of  human 
nature. 

However,  it  is  to  Jinglebrain,  not  so  much  as  a  dandy,  nor 
even  as  a  conceited  numskull,  that  we  now  desire  to  paint  him 
as  he  is,  but  as  one  of  your  do-nothing,  nothing-to-do  gentry 
who  affect  to  hold  all  useful  occupations  in  disgust. 

Man  is  an  eating  animal,  aye,  a  drinking  one  too — were  it  not 
so,  the  bar-keepers  and  the  restaurants  might  suffer.  Man,  we 
say,  is  an  eating  animal,  and  as  such  he  needs  occupation  to 
furnish  him  the  wherewith  to  buy  bread  and  butter,  and  those 
little  daily  necessaries,  such  as  food  and  clothes  to  wear.  The 
merchant  toils  early  and  toils  late,  and  not  unfrequently 
carries  the  cares  of  the  counting  room  to  his  pillow — the  profes- 
sional man  is  full  of  anxiety,  and  very  often  leads  a  life  which  is 
the  opposite  extreme  from  pleasure  and  repose.  If  we  survey 
the  streets  of  our  city,  we  see  the  sons  of  toil  in  their  various  de- 
grees and  standing,  and  all  active  in  business  and  bustle,  and 
wherefore?  Man  is  an  eating  animal  and  a  clothes- wearing  ani- 
mal, and  women  and  children  need  sustenance  and  shelter  too. 
There  is  something  noble  in  filling  up  an  honest  and  praise- 
worthy sphere  of  usefulness — in  furnishing  our  quota  toward 
the  requirements  of  good  citizenship — but  what  sphere  of  use- 
fulness does  Jinglebrain  fill  up,  what  niche  of  honest  industry 
does  he  occupy? 

It  is  said  that  he  had  a  wife  once — people  say  that  he  had 
more  than  one,  but  that  he  has  none  now  is  just  the  truth  and 
"nothing  else."  There  are  some  little  peccadilloes  which  it 
might  be  unpleasant  to  bring  to  light,  and  which  would  under 
such  development  exceedingly  disturb  the  peace  and  dignity  of 
our  friend  Jinglebrain — all  these  deeds  and  misdoings  are  wrap- 
ped in  the  veil  of  oblivion,  or  perhaps  of  an  "alias,"  and  now  he 
sports  his  moustache  and  clean  linen  per  sey  and  is  a  gentleman 
of  leisure.  He  has  an  overflowing  purse  too,  and  everybody 
knows  how  he  shuffles  and  makes  shift  to  keep  it  replenished. 
No  man  has  a  greater  horror  of  the  restraints  which  a  business 
occupation  imposes  than  this  same  dandy  whom  we  are  at- 
tempting to  "Sketch."  He  has  no  ostensible  occupation  him- 
self— no  counting  room,  no  business  office,  no  fortune  that  he 


2io  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

has  inherited,  no  "  old  man  "  of  a  father  or  an  uncle  who  is  very 
rich  and  very  indulgent,  and  yet  he  always  has  plenty  of 
money — always  flourishes  in  the  most  fashionable  style  and 
eats  at  the  most  expensive  table. 

Philosophers  tell  us  of  many  wonders  in  nature — wonders  of 
the  earth,  the  air,  and  the  mighty  deep;  but  of  all  the  wonders 
of  a  wonderful  world,  the  way  in  which  some  people  live  is  the 
greatest  wonder  yet.  Jinglebrain  boards  at  one  of  the  crack 
hotels,  and  after  a  10  o'clock  breakfast,  he  patronizes  the  barber 
for  an  hour  or  two,  and  then  dawdles  about^  as  Fanny  Kemble 
would  say,  until  dinner.  He  plays  a  game  of  billiards,  whiles 
away  an  hour  at  the  green-room  of  one  of  the  theatres,  drinks  at 
the  most  fashionable  restaurants,  and  lunches  at  12  or  i  o'clock 
in  the  most  recherche  manner  imaginable.  You  see  him  prom- 
enading the  streets,  or  driving  dull  care  away  with  a  choice  re- 
galia and  a  fresh  newspaper,  as  he  lolls  in  an  arm  chair  on  the 
portico  of  his  hotel — he's  a  "gentleman"  in  a  wonderfully 
good  humor  with  himself  and  evidently  feels  his  keeping. 

Jinglebrain  affects  the  critic  too  in  literature — he  pities  the 
poor  drudge  that  writes,  but  he  condescends  to  notice  his  pro- 
ductions. He  twirls  his  moustache  or  puffs  his  segar  with 
exceeding  genteel  nonchalance  as  he  passes  his  comment  upon 
some  work  of  genius — and  all  the  while  too,  he,  Jinglebrain,  is  a 
numskull;  in  learning  he  has  hardly  passed  "the  rudiments," 
and  if  his  pretensions  could  only  be  inspected,  it  would  be  dis- 
covered that  the  plus  of  his  self-esteem  would  be  represented 
by  a  minus  in  the  estimation  of  others.  We  have  heard  it  said 
that  our  friend  has  but  one  standard  of  quality,  and  that  is 
from  the  skin  outwards.  His  gentlemen  are  made  up  of  three 
parts:  first,  broadcloth;  second,  clean  linen;  and  thirdly,  of 
hair.  No  man  without  a  moustache  has  ever  been  known  to 
be  recognized  or  [to]  receive  a  street  salutation  at  his  hands. 
Multitudes  of  those  who  know  him  at  other  times  and  in  other 
places  receive  no  look  of  observation  or  recognition  from  him 
whatever. 

What  will  become  of  Jinglebrain  when  he  dies  we  cannot 
say.  I  am  sure  no  one  can  tell.  There  are  denunciations  and 
there  are  blessings  pronounced  on  the  souls  of  those  who  do  evil, 
and  those  also  who  do  well:  but  what  dispensation  of  mercy 
there  is  for  those  who  have  no  souls3  and  who  regard  only  the 
corporeal  outside  of  the  living  man,  we  are  by  no  means  of  suf- 
ficient wisdom  to  determine. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  211 

TIMOTHY  GOUJON,  V.  O.  N.  O.1 
(Vender  of  Oysters  in  New  Orleans) 

There  is  in  all  cities  bordering  nigh  unto  the  sea,  a  certain 
species  of  fish  ycleped  oysters,  very  much  desired  by  the  dwellers 
in  said  cities,  and  very  much  sold  by  certain  individuals,  of  rare 
peculiarities,  called  oystermen. 

In  this  goodly  city  of  New  Orleans,  (albeit,  not  so  very  good 
either,)  there  abounds  a  class  of  worthy  citizens,  named  as 
above,  and  who  exercise  the  office  and  administration  of  fishes 
of  this  nature,  styled,  as  we  have  said,  oysters.  The  daily  duty 
of  these  individuals — free  citizens  of  a  remarkably  free  city — 
is  to  vend  by  retail  the  interior  fleshy  and  somewhat  savory 
substance  of  these  shell-fish,  as  above  alluded  to.  The  outer 
crust,  or  envelope  of  these,  being  of  a  tough,  unyielding  and 
indigestible  quality,  is  rejected  and  thrown  aside  as  worthless, 
nothing  being  eaten  by  the  children  of  men  but  the  puffy  con- 
tents thereof.  To  sell  such,  is  the  business  and  daily  care  of 
those  called,  in  common  language,  oystermen — the  French 
style  them  ecaille  [ecaillers]. 

It  cannot  have  escaped  the  notice  of  the  most  casual  observer 
of  men  and  things,  that  the  streets  and  well  thronged  thorough- 
fares abound  in  certain  brick  tenements,  professedly  devoted — 
not  the  buildings  but  the  occupants — to  the  preparing  and  ren- 
dering fit  for  the  mastication  of  all  and  sundry  reputable  citizens 
— at  least  those  who  possess  the  wherewith  to  pay  for  them — 
these  said  shell-fish,  fished  up  by  a  pair  of  iron  claws  out  of  the 
briny  deep.  These  tenements,  bearing  aloft  the  outward  insig- 
nia of  their  rank  and  condition,  are  to  be  found  in  the  crowded 
walks  of  the  city — and  he  "who  runs  may  read,"  and  he  who  is 
hungry  may  pass  in  and  be  served,  not  only  to  his  heart's  con- 
tent, but  also  to  his  stomach's,  which  is  the  best  of  the  bargain. 
We  ourselves  have  refreshed  and  regaled  the  "inner  man," 
many  times  and  oft  by  those  luxuriating  viands  compounded  by 
those  disciples  of  the  illustrious  kitchener,  paying  our  quota  of 
current  coin  meanwhile,  and  going  joyfully  on  our  way.  But  of 
late  we  have  ceased  in  our  visitations  to  these  temples — finding 
that  a  repletion  of  the  stomach  and  a  similar  condition  of  the 
brain-pan  were  always  in  an  inverse  ratio  the  one  to  the  other. 

i.From  the  Daily  Crescent,  April  4,  1848. 


212  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

When  the  stomach  was  full  of  luxury  and  good  eating,  the  brain 
was  empty — barrenness  and  desolation  prevailing  throughout 
"the  dome  of  thought,  the  palace  of  the  soul."1  In  such  an 
extremity,  having  ever  been  taught  to  respect  mind  rather  than 
matter,  we  have  preferred  to  become  even  as  one  of  "Phar- 
aoh's lean  kine,"  in  order  to  have  use  and  exercise  of  said  article 
of  brain.  Everybody  remembers  the  story  of  the  old  Dutchman 
so  happy  and  so  contented,  who  said  that  "he  chust  eats  and 
thrinks  till  he's  full,  and  then  he  schmokes  and  schmokes,  and 
thinks  about  notin  at  all." 

'Tis  not,  therefore,  to  these  Epicurean  depots  we  refer,  or  to 
the  proprietors  thereof — not  by  any  manner  of  means :  they 
are  well  favored  men,  which,  as  Dogberry  says,  "is  the  gift  of 
nature":2  they  wear  black  coats  and  carry  canes.  These,  in  the 
strictness  of  speech,  and  the  bounds  of  propriety,  come  not 
under  the  classification  above  alluded  to.  We  refer  to  certain 
graceless  sans  culottes — no,  not  sans  culottes  either,  literally,  for 
that  would  be  "most  senseless  and  fit"3 — but  in  the  political 
sense  of  the  term:  men,  who,  in  the  scale  of  the  social  ther- 
mometer, do  not  reach  boiling  point  by  any  means.  It  was  to 
this  enterprising  portion  of  the  body  politic  that  Timothy  Gou- 
jon  belonged.  Long  had  he  lived  and  labored  in  the  cause  of 
science,  for  he  was  a  practical  naturalist — perhaps  you  may  say  a 
conchologist — spending  his  days  and  his  nights  among  shell- 
fish— he  was  a  vendor  of  oysters. 

Goujon  made  his  advent  in  "this  breathing  world"  in  the 
city  of  Bordeaux  or  in  some  of  the  faubourgs  thereof.  His  par- 
ents being  grave  and  close-mouthed  people — a  national  char- 
acteristic— very  naturally  placed  Timothy,  when  he  had  come 
to  years,  at  the  occupation  which  he  has  followed  through  life — 
namely,  a  fisher  and  a  vendor  of  oysters.  Of  the  particulars 
of  his  crossing  the  Atlantic,  and  finding  himself  erect,  like  other 
"featherless  bipeds,"  here  upon  the  levee  of  New  Orleans,  we 
are  sorry  we  have  no  well  detailed  account.  Neither  he  nor  his 
parents  before  him  were  able  to  exercise  the  art  of  chirography, 
and  therefore,  of  the  deeds  of  his  early  life — how  many  times 
with  furious  grasp  upon  the  iron  tongs  he  has  dragged  these 
unoffending  fishes  from  their  natal  bed,  or  murderously  thrust 

» Byron's  "Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,"  Canto  II,  Stanza  6. 

*Cf.  "To  be  a  well-favoured  man  is  the  gift  of  Fortune,  but  to  write  and  read  comes 
by  Nature,"  "Much  Ado  About  Nothing,"  III,  3,  15-17. 
*  Ibidem,  III,  3, 23. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  213 

the  knife  into  their  bosoms,  and  torn  them  from  their  comfort- 
able little  homes — of  these  things  we  are  not  informed,  and 
must  therefore,  with  provoking  brevity,  remain  as  mute  as  this 
same  commodity  in  which  he  so  perseveringly  deals. 

We  have  heard  that  a  year  or  two  ago  he  involved  himself 
in  the  rent  of  a  small  box  of  a  corner  shop,  where  his  beautiful 
triangular  lantern,  covered  with  red  worsted,  and  bearing  the 
inviting  inscription  of  "Always  Oysters,  fryd,  rost  £s?  in  the  shel" 
hung  out  by  night  as  a  point  of  local  attraction  to  the  hungry 
and  wayfaring,  both  of  which  varieties  of  worthies  it  is  pre- 
sumed every  sizeable  city  contains.  This  speculation  did  not 
succeed,  and  Timothy  sold  out  his  stock  in  trade,  including  the 
beautiful  red  worsted  emblem  of  gastronomy,  and  betook  him- 
self independently  to  the  Levee,  like  a  gentleman,  where  he 
might  breathe  a  purer  air,  and  give  exercise  to  his  lungs,  at  the 
same  time  vending  viva  voce  the  inanimate  quadrupeds  which 
lay  piled  up  with  so  much  sangfroid  in  his  boat  beside  him. 

Often,  of  a  Sunday  morning,  we  have  heard  the  melodious, 
guttural  voice  of  Timothy  Goujon,  in  that  place  in  the  city  of 
New  Orleans  where  men  and  women  do,  at  this  especial  hour  of 
the  week,  "most  congregate,"  namely,  in  the  Market-place.1 
There  have  we  seen  and  heard  the  sentimental  Goujon  trill 
forth  harmonious  ditty  in  accents  somewhat  like  the  following, 
though  it  would  require  a  mixture  of  the  French  horn  and  the 
bassoon  to  grunt  out  the  strain  with  any  degree  of  exactness, 
especially  the  chorus:  "Ah-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h  a  bonne  marche — 
so  cheep  as  navair  vas — toutes  frais — var  fresh.  Ah-h-h  un 
veritable  collection — jentlemens  and  plack  folks.  Ah-h-h 
come  and  puyde  veritable  poisson  de  la  mer — de  bonne  huitres — 
Ah-h-h-h-h-h-h-h!" 

Adieu,  Goujon,  sell  your  oysters,  and  pocket  your  small 
gains,  and  live  quietly  and  comfortably,  chaqu  un  a  son  gout, 
and  chaqu  un  a  son  gre. 


PATRICK   McDRAY2 

Stranger,  perhaps  youVe  seen  a  stout,  hardy-looking  Hiber- 
nian driving  cotton  bales  along  the  street.  He's  a  jolly-looking 
fellow,  somewhat  pitted  by  the  smallpox,  cracks  his  whip  in  a 

1  Cf.  infra,  p.  204. 

•From  the  Daily  Crescent,  April  18,  1848. 


2i4  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

peculiar  manner,  and  drives  a  good  horse — that's  Patrick 
McDray. 

He's  a  clever  fellow,  is  Pat;  and  by  dint  of  hard  labor  and 
plenty  of  it,  supplies  his  daily  wants  and  the  animal  necessities 
of  five  or  six  small  Pats,  who  look  for  all  the  world  like  chips 
off  the  old  block. 

It  needs  no  "ghost  from  the  grave"  to  tell  us  whence  came 
Patrick  McDray;  the  thing  spakes  for  itself,  for  a  brogue  as 
unerring  as  the  pointing  of  the  needle  to  the  pole.  True,  he 
has  some  idea  of  becoming  a  native,  as  he  says,  of  this  country, 
seeing  he  likes  it  so  well;  but  it  is  enough  for  our  present  purpose 
to  acquaint  you,  reader,  that  Patrick  patronized  the  "Green 
Isle  of  the  Ocean  "  when  he  came  floundering,  like  a  great  calf, 
into  this  round  world  of  trouble,  where — 

"There's  nought  but  care  on  every  hand, 
In  every  hour  that  passes,  O." * 

In  his  own  "swate"  land  he  had  endured  the  frowns  of  an  ill- 
natured  world  for  many  years,  and  it  was  one  of  the  blessed 
chances  which  occasionally  visit  the  likes  of  Patrick  McDray 
that  brought  him  safe  and  sound  upon  dry  land  on  this  side  of 
the  water. 

But  not  only  in  the  matter  of  mate  and  dhrink  and  clothes 
was  Paddy  made  a  fortunate  possessor  of  "virtue,  liberty  and  in- 
dependence"— and  all  as  a  natural  right  and  consequence  of 
breathing  the  blessed  air  that  blows  through  the  vales  and  over 
the  hills  of  our  rightful  land — but  Pat,  by  his  change  of  soil 
and  climate,  became  a  sturdy  patriot  at  the  drawing  nigh  of 
the  election. 

Well,  we  may  trace  Patrick  McDray  up  one  side  and  down  the 
other  from  his  birth  and  birth  place  in  "  the  swate  Isle,"  which 
is  to  the  millions,  "swate"  only  in  the  "uses  of  adversity;"2 
we  may  follow  him,  we  say,  from  plain  Pat  all  the  way  up  to 
his  present  improved  condition  of  Mr.  Patrick  McDray,  who 
owns  his  own  team  and  drives  it  like  a  gentleman.  It  is  a  re- 
markable thing  how  a  man  will  pick  up,  little  by  little;  only  give 
him  plentyof  work  and  sure  pay,and  liberty  [?]  united  to  "virtue, 

1From  Robert  Burns's  "Green  Grow  the  Rashes  O!"  The  number  of  quotations 
from  Burns  at  this  time  suggests  that  Whitman  may  then  have  been  making  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  Scottish  poet,  whom  he  praised  very  highly  in  an  essay  many  years 
later  (see  "Complete  Prose,"  pp.  395-402).  However,  the  quotations  are  not  always 
accurately  made  and  may  have  been  culled  from  memory. 

*"AsYouLikeIt,"II,  1, 14.    , 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  215 

liberty  and  independence"  will  do  the  balance.  But  Paddy  was 
otherwise  united  than  to  the  three  twin  sisters  we  speak  of — 
Paddy  had  a  wife,  and  Bridget  was  her  name. 

It  would  be  exceedingly  unbecoming  to  invade  the  sanctity 
of  the  domestic  circle;  and  we  prefer  to  depict  Paddy  as  he  is, 
either  in  his  daily  character  as  drayman,  or  in  his  occasional 
duty  at  the  polls;  but  our  picture  would  scarce  be  complete 
without  one  peep  at  Bridget,  for  at  home  she  was  the  very 
"sowl  of  the  cause." 

"O  Nature!  all  thy  shows  and  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  have  charms! 
Whether  the  summer  kindly  warms, 

Wi'  life  and  light 
Or  winter  snows  in  gusty  storms, 

The  long  dark  night!" 1 

An  unsophisticated  child  of  nature  was  Bridget  McDray, 
sure  enough.  She  was  a  mixture  of  this  "kindly  summer"  and 
"gusty  winter,"  being  all  brightness  and  sunshine  and  good 
humor  when  things  went  well;  but  on  the  other  hand,  over- 
darkened  with  storms,  "gusty"  enough  when  ills  prevailed. 
A  strange  compound  was  Bridget's  physiognomy — the  extreme 
of  good  nature  and  honest  frankness  was  there,  and  yet  as  vexa- 
tions are  abundant  in  this  "world  of  care,"  and  abundant  too 
in  proportion  to  our  yielding  to  their  sway,  there  was  to  be  seen 
in  her  visage  a  trace  of  a  moral  storm  when  furious  passion  had 
raged  and  left  its  lines  in  her  brow  and  in  the  drawing  down 
the  corners  of  her  mouth.  Naturally  frank  to  a  fault,  yet, 
notwithstanding,  "they  do  say"  when  her  "Irish  gets  up" 
Bridget  is  "rale  Tipperary"  over  again  and  can  flourish  a 
broomstick  or  her  tongue  with  equal  rapidity  and  violence.  O 
but  she's  a  jewel  of  a  wife,  is  Bridget  when  "she  gets  in  one  of 
her  ways." 

Patrick  thrives  well;  he  pays  his  day  and  way  like  an  honest 
man,  and  takes  good  care  of  his  horse  Cashel,  and  this  shows 
him  to  be  a  gentleman.  He  puts  on  his  Sunday  clothes  when 
Sunday  comes,  and  takes  a  walk  upon  the  Levee  by  way  of  a 
variety,  and  when  his  wife  Bridget  "gets  high"  he  just  drops 
quietly  out  of  the  way  and  waits  till  the  breeze  has  blown  over 
and  this  shows  him  to  be  a  man  of  wisdom,  for  in  the  one  case 
a  multitude  of  words  would  only  have  "darkened  counsel," 

iFrom  Robert  Burns's  "  Epistle  to  William  Simpson." 


2i6  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

while  giving  Bridget  the  whole  house  to  herself,  peace  was  rap- 
idly declared,  there  being  no  enemy  to  encounter. 

We  take  our  leave  of  Patrick  McDray,  wishing  him  success 
in  life  and  a  heap  of  it. 

SAMUEL  SENSITIVE1 

It  is  a  fact  sufficiently  self-evidentj  neither  to  be  gainsaid 
or  in  any  manner  to  be  disputed,  that  there  is  a  deal  of  sweetness 
in  the  nature  of  a  woman.  Samuel  Sensitive  had  fallen  in  love 
with  one  of  the  sex,  and  her  name  was  Miss  Julia  Katydid. 

It  was  a  present  to  Julia,  that  Sam  had,  with  due  considera- 
tion of  the  consequences,  resolved  to  abstract  forty  dollars 
and  upward  from  his  oyster  and  billiard  account,  and  bestow 
it  in  a  beautiful,  enameled,  filagree,  inlaid  morceau  of  bijouterie, 
whose  value  intrinsically,  per  sey  was  perhaps  about  six  bits. 
Sam  loved  Katydid,  and  was  very  anxious,  by  all  honorable 
means,  to  draw  upon  himself  the  heavenly  influences  of  double- 
distilled  blessedness  in  the  shape  of  a  sweet  woman's  love.  For 
this  purpose  he  set  to  work  according  to  the  manner  and  form 
in  such  cases  "made  and  provided."  " Twere  long  to  tell "  the 
extent  and  the  variety  of  Sam's  amiability  upon  this  occasion. 

It  was  a  lucky  chance  for  the  head  clerk  of  Messrs.  Pork,  Pro- 
duce &  Co.,  that  the  star  of  Katydid  rose  on  his  horizon,  for 
he  was  posting  the  turnpike  of  iniquity  in  one  of  the  biggest 
omnibusses  that  belong  to  that  popular  line.  But  mesmerism, 
in  the  shape  of  Cupid,  made  his  "passes"  at  Sam,  and  speedily  he 
was  a  "gone  hoss."    Julia  Katydid  was  a  young  lady  with  bright 

^rom  the  Daily  Crescent,  May  2, 1848. 

It  is  perhaps  worth  noting  that  this  extravagantly  and  almost  vulgarly  sentimental 
sketch  was  published  in  the  Crescent  the  day  following  the  date  announced  for  the 
masked  ball  at  Lafayette,  Whitman's  account  of  which,  "A  Night  at  the  Terpsichore 
Ball,"  is  reprinted  in  this  volume  (pp.  225-228).  This  coincidence  becomes  the  more 
interesting,  if  not  significant,  when  we  place  beside  it  another.  The  quotation  on 
p.  217,  post,  is  from  Burns's  "Ae  Fond  Kiss,"  addressed  to  his  Nancy,  who,  it  will  be 
remembered,  was  also  a  married  woman.  Now,  in  the  conversation  with  the  fair  un- 
named of  the  Terpsichore  Ball,  Whitman  found  that  she  knew  all  the  poets.  Is  it  possi- 
ble that  he  is  here  covertly  sending  her  a  message  through  a  newspaper,  alluding  to  a 
poem  which  his  inamorata  would  recognize  as  appropriate  to  his  feeling  and  their  rela- 
tion, but  which  the  husband,  being  perhaps  less  literary,  would  miss,  especially  when 
the  whole  was  so  soaked  in  sentimentality  as  to  repell  the  average  reader?  Moreover, 
Whitman's  picture  of  Julia  departing  on  a  river  steamer,  leaving  her  lover  to  his  sad 
meditations,  reminds  us  of  Burns's  "  Behold  the  Hour,"  likewise  addressed  to  his  Nancy 
on  the  occasion  of  her  departure  for  Jamaica  to  join  her  husband.  There  is  at  times 
something  sly  and  secretive  about  Whitman,  and  I  do  not  believe  him  incapable  of  such 
an  experience  as  I  have  suggested;  but  the  evidence  is  so  fragmentary  as  to  have  no  value 
as  proof.     See  in  this  connection  Biographical  Introduction,  pp.  xlvii  fF. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  217 

eyes,  very  bright  raven  ringlets,  very  dark,  and  ruby  lips,  like 
cherries,  and  alabaster  neck,  and  a  very  nice  chin  with  a  dimple 
in  it.     Wasn't  she  pretty?1 

She  was  the  niece  of  some  good  lady  and  she  had  had  a  mother 
— one  who  was  a  mother,  and  had  brought  up  this  feminine 
jewel  of  loveliness  in  a  manner  to  develope  the  exceeding  grace 
of  a  nature  pure  and  exalted  as  those  blest  beings  whom,  in  our 
dreams  of  fancy,  we  fondly  suppose  to  hover  about  the  abodes 
of  innocence  and  peace.  Those  who  only  know  women  in  the 
haunts  and  kennels  of  sensuality,  are  widely  ignorant  of  the 
real  nature  of  the  sex,  and  while  profligacy  tends  so  purely  to 
debase  and  "imbute"  [imbrute]  the  soul,  as  Milton  says,2  the 
kindly  influence  of  female  innocense  is  like  the  quality  of  mercy 
itself,  distilling  like  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven,  and  is  indeed 
"twice  blessed"  whenever  and  wherever  it  is  exercised.3 

It  is  a  curious  discovery  that  a  young  fellow  makes  when 
first  he  becomes  sensible  of  the  existence  of  what  is  poetically 
termed  "a  heart."  He  is  sick  and  he  isn't  sick;  something 
is  the  matter,  and  he  hardly  knows  what.  He  sits  and  sighs, 
while  visions  of  blond  lace  and  fancy  ribbons,  to  say  nothing  of 
"love  darting  eyes  and  tresses  like  the  morn,"4  flit  before  his 
imagination,  and  render  him  very  qualmish  indeed.  Sam  never 
made  so  many  blots  in  his  day-book  before,  and  once  when  he 
should  have  written  "  Dried  Herrings,"  in  copying  an  invoice,  his 
pen  insensibly  traced  the  fair  characters  of  the  name  of  "Julia 
Katydid."  He  even  tried  to  write  poetry,  saw  beauty  in  the 
moon  and  stars,  was  frequently  seen  by  the  watchman  to  wander 
along  the  Levee,  humming  to  himself,  "O,  meet  me  by  moonlight 
alone,"5  or  apostrophizing  a  bale  of  cotton  in  words  like  these: 

Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly; 
Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 
Never  met  and  never  parted, 
I  had  ne'er  been  broken  hearted !  6 

Julia,  it  seems,  had  lately  gone  off  up  the  river  on  a  visit  to 
some  friends,  and  the  self-same  post  to  which  the  steamer  was 

1  There  are  points  of  likeness  between  this  description  and  the  photograph  found  in 
Whitman's  notebook;  see  Vol.  II,  facing  p.  70. 
*Cf.  "Comus",  11.  463-469. 

•Paraphrased  from  Portia's  speech  in  "The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  IV,  1. 
♦"Comus,"  1.  753. 

6The  title  of  a  popular  song  by  J.  Augustus  Wade  (1800-1875). 
6See  infra,  p.  216,  note. 


2i 8  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

fastened  when  the  fair  Katydid  stepped  foot  on  board  was  like 
"storied  urn  and  monumental  bust,"1  to  Sam.  He  couldn't 
have  thought  it  possible  that  a  big  post  should  have  gained  so 
upon  his  affection,  and  as  by  moonlight  he  stood  there  leaning 
up  against  the  aforesaid  romantic  piece  of  timber,  and  gazing 
out  upon  the  mighty  Mississippi,  which  was  running  at  that 
time  pretty  full  of  drift  wood,  Sam  did  feel  sad,  sorrowful  and 
sober-hearted  enough. 

But  why  spin  out  a  long  story?  for  a  long  one  could  be  told 
of  the  courtship  of  Sam  and  Katydid.  Let  it  suffice  to  say, 
that  through  the  benign  influence  of  a  very  woman,  a  "  change 
came  over  the  spirit"  of  the  young  gentleman's  dream,2  and 
he  who  was  once  the  prince  of  good  fellows  among  a  crowd  of 
roysterers  in  an  evening's  carouse,  and  could  laugh  the  loudest 
and  longest,  and  emptiest,  was  made  a  different  chap  of  as 
soon  as 

His  dream  of  life  from  morn  till  night, 

Was  love — still  love.s 

Why  lengthen  the  recital?  Katydid  was  not  inexorable, 
neither  had  she  a  heart  of  adamant,  harder  than  the  nether  mill- 
stone. She,  being  wooed,  was  in  due  course  of  things,  won, 
and  I  can  show  the  house  where  they  live — that  is,  Sam  and  his 
wife,  Katydid.  He  visits  the  Levee  no  more  by  moonlight, 
not  he:  he  stays  at  home  like  a  decent  worthy  citizen,  as 
he  is.  He  loves  Katydid,  and  has  reason  to  bless  the  hour 
when  she  smiled  and  winked,  and  half  confessed  that  she  loved 
him.  The  merchantable  firm  with  whom  Sam  was  brought 
up,  opened  wide  their  business  arms,  and  took  him  in.  Alto- 
gether, Sam  is  looking  up  in  the  world.  Who  will  not  say  that 
it  was  not  that  same  bright-eyed  Katydid  that  made  a  man  of 
him? 

DEATH  OF  MR.  ASTOR  OF  NEW  YORK4 

At  a  very  advanced  age  this  very  well  known  personage  has 
at  length  left  that  earth  on  which  he  had  such  large  possessions. 

*A  misquotation  of  Gray's  "Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,"  1.  41. 
*Cf.  infra,  p.  179,  note.  This  quotation,  it  may  be  observed,  is  another,  if  a  slight,  evi- 
dence of  the  Whitman  authorship  of  these  sketches. 
3Cf.  Thomas  Moore's  "Love's  Young  Dream,"  stanza  I. 
4  From  the  Daily  Crescent,  April  7,  1848. 
At  the  time  of  his  death  John  Jacob  Astor  was  the  wealthiest  man  in  the  United  States. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  219 

"The  rich  man  also  died."  It  were  a  trite  moral  to  draw — to  go 
over  the  oft-said  maxims  about  the  vanity  of  wealth,  and  its 
inability  to  wrestle  with  death;  and  we  forbear.  Wealth  is  good 
enough;  but  unfortunately  people  don't  one  quarter  of  the  time 
enjoy  it,  after  it  comes  to  them. 

For  some  years  past  Mr.  Astor  has  been  living  in  a  two  story 
brick  house  in  Broadway,  New  York,  opposite  the  old  site  of 
Niblo's  Garden.  The  laconic  door-plate,  "Mr.  Astor"  informs 
persons  of  the  name  of  the  occupant.  Somehow,  this  dwelling 
always  had  a  cold,  cheerless,  naked,  and  uninviting  appearance:1 
there  were  no  shutters  to  the  prodigious  windows,  nor  were 
pleasant  faces  ever  seen  at  the  panes — nor  was  the  warm  aspect 
of  family  comforts  and  endearments  known  there.  Ugh!  the 
house  gave  one  something  of  a  chill  when  passing  it,  even  in 
summer. 

We  remember  seeing  Mr.  A.  two  winters  since,  when  going 
down  Broadway  by  this  house.2  A  couple  of  servants  were 
assisting  him  across  the  pavement  to  a  sleigh  which  was  drawn 
up  by  the  curb-stone.  The  old  gentleman's  head  seemed  com- 
pletely bent  down  with  age  and  sickness;  he  was  muffled  in  furs 
and  entirely  unable  to  help  himself.  The  very  groom,  a  hearty 
young  Irishman,  with  perhaps  not  two  dollars  in  his  pocket, 
looked  with  pity  upon  the  great  millionaire!  Certainly  no  man, 
of  the  crowds  that  hurried  along  that  busy  promenade,  would 
have  accepted  the  rich  capitalist's  wealth  tied  to  the  condition  of 
being  "in  his  shoes." 

Some  curiosity  has  long  been  felt  at  the  north,  to  know 
the  disposition  of  Mr.  A.'s  immense  wealth.  It  is  rumored  that 
a  benevolent  bequest  has  been  made  of  several  hundred  thousand 
dollars;  that  literary  institutions  have  been  founded,  and  so  on. 
We  shall  soon  learn  whether  there  is  any  truth  in  these  stories. 
Fitz-Green  Halleck,  the  poet,  has  for  some  years  been  the  confi- 
dential clerk  of  Mr.  Astor,  and  will  doubtless  receive  a  hand- 
some legacy.  One  of  the  sons  of  Mr.  A.  is  a  confirmed  lunatic, 
and  is  taken  care  of  in  a  house  built  expressly  for  him  by  his 
father,  in  New  York.  He  has  servants,  medical  attendance, 
etc.  The  domestic  affairs  of  Mr.  Astor  were  never  happy,  or,  at 
least,  have  not  been  so  for  many  years. 


For  Whitman's  attitude  toward  great  riches,  see  also  infra,  pp.  37-29,  Hi;  post,  I,  pp. 
123-125,  245;  II,  pp.  63,  67. 

1  Cf.  infra,  p.  96. 

*Cf.  "Complete  Prose,"  p.  12. 


220  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

UNIVERSITY  STUDIES* 

.  .  .  Fertile  as  the  age  has  been  in  plans  for  the  im- 
provement of  the  individual  and  social  life,  in  no  department 
has  the  human  intellect  been  more  active  than  in  devising  sys- 
tems of  education,  fitted  both  for  the  Common  School  and  the 
University.  Yet,  diverse  as  have  been  these  schemes  proposed 
for  training  the  race  for  its  duties  and  its  pleasures,  all  have 
admitted  the  general  principle  that  the  object  of  education 
is  rather  that  of  developing,  strengthening  and  directing  the 
faculties  with  which  nature  has  endowed  us,  than  that  of  im- 
parting positive  knowledge,  filling  the  mind  with  a  heap  of  dis- 
jointed facts,  or  making  it  a  store-house  for  the  reception  of  the 
exploded  theories  of  past  generations.  To  expand  and  purify 
the  soul  by  the  contemplation  of  virtue,  to  strengthen  the  mind 
for  the  search  after  truth,  and  fill  it  with  the  earnest  determina- 
tion of  resting  satisfied  with  no  other  object  of  pursuit,  should 
be  the  primary  aim  of  all  educational  means.     .     .     . 

.  .  .  We  may  say  then  that  the  Common  School  is  pe- 
culiarly connected  with  what  are  generally  called  the  material 
interests  of  society.  .  .  .  The  University,  while  it  forgets 
not  to  inculcate  on  the  scholar  the  necessity  of  attending  to  the 
material  agencies  by  which  we  are  surrounded,  is  also  occupied 
with  teaching  him  that  there  is  something  more  than  matter 
in  the  universe,  and  instructs  him  in  the  art  of  removing  the 
integuments  which  cover  the  ideal,  and  hide  from  all  but  the 
eye-intellectual  the  beauties  and  truths  of  the  immaterial  world. 
But  since  the  University  is  merely  a  continuation  of  the  Com- 
mon School,  both  must  be  founded  on  a  common  principle; 
both  aim,  as  we  have  said,  at  awakening  and  developing — 
neither  at  perfecting — the  faculties  of  our  nature. 

If  we  are  right  in  saying  that  the  object  of  University  educa- 
tion is  rather  to  inspire  the  student  with  an  ardent  desire  to 
search  after  truth  than  to  infuse  into  his  mind  correct  opinions 
on  all  objects  within  the  scope  of  University  instruction — it  will 
be  immediately  perceived  that  it  is  much  more  important  for 
the  professors  and  text-writers  to  be  thoroughly  imbued  with 
the  spirit  of  pure  and  elevated  philosophy  than  for  them  to  come 
to  a  certain  standard  of  orthodoxy,  erected  by  a  certain  sect  in 
politics,  religion  or  literature.     It  was  said  by  Lessing,  "It 

'From  the  Daily  Crescent,  April  II,  1848. 
Cf.  infra,  pp.  144-146; />o.f/,  II,  pp.  13-15. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  221 

God  held  in  his  right  hand  pure  and  absolute  truth,  and  in  his 
left  only  the  desire  to  search  after  truth,  I  would  tell  him  to  keep 
pure  truth  for  himself,  as  mortal  eyes  are  too  weak  to  look  on  it, 
and  would  ask  him  to  give  me  only  the  desire  to  search  after 
truth."1  So  should  the  youth  speak  to  the  professor,  if  the  latter 
should  presume  to  declare  his  opinions  as  the  only  possible  truth, 
and  denounce  all  others  as  absolutely  and  unqualifiedly  false. 
Let  the  professor  rather  tell  the  opinions  of  others  and  their 
reasonings  as  well  as  his  own;  then  say  to  his  hearers,  "I  cannot 
decide  for  you,  you  must  inquire  and  decide  for  yourselves." 
Such,  we  are  told,  is  the  course  actually  pursued  by  the  Lecturer 
on  Constitutional  Law  of  the  Louisiana  University;  and  how 
much  better  it  is  than  if  he  merely  gave  his  own  opinions,  with 
the  reasons  which  led  him  to  form  them,  leaving  the  student 
under  the  impression  that  there  was  no  other  rational  way  of 
considering  the  subject. 

As  with  professors,  so  should  it  be  with  text-books.  .  .  . 
Students,  however,  will  never  remain  satisfied  with  a  one- 
sided view  of  any  subject;  and  having  learned  from  their  pro- 
fessors that  independence  of  thought  which  is  a  cardinal  virtue 
in  the  republic  of  letters,  there  is  no  danger  of  their  receiving 
the  words  of  any  man  as  the  words  of  a  master.     .     .     . 


THE  OLD  CATHEDRAL2 

This  venerable  building  was,  on  Thursday  last,  resorted  to 
by  hundreds  of  those  who  wished  to  show  their  penitence  and 
humility.  The  old  monastic  church  stood,  as  it  were,  aloof 
from  the  wings  on  either  side.  The  temples  dedicated  to  the 
law — the  higher  Courts  on  the  one  side,  and  the  Municipal 
Court  on  the  other — have  been  renovated,  and  now  look  like 
modern  structures  by  the  side  of  some  monument  of  old.  The 
tall,  gray  Cathedral  reared  its  ancient  spire  to  Heaven;  but 
the  towers  wherein  [were]  the  bells  that  have  tolled  the  death 
knell,  and  rung  the  merry  marriage  music  of  thousands,  were 
silent.  It  was  a  day  dedicated  to  the  "King  of  Kings" — it 
was  the  Holy  Thursday  of  Passion  week.  It  commemorated 
the  occasion  of  the  "Last  Supper"  of  our  Saviour,  who,  when 
surrounded  by  his  disciples,  gave  them  his  last  earthly  bless- 
ing.    There  were  over  two  thousand  communicants  kneeling 

»In  his  Eine  Duplik  (1778).     Being  ignorant  of  German,  Whitman  probably  got 
this  quotation  at  second  hand. 
2From  the  Daily  Crescent,  April  22,  1848. 


222  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

at  the  altars,  at  various  periods  of  the  day,  and  all  seemed  fully- 
sensible  of  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion.  Grand  Mass  was  cele- 
brated— after  which,  many  persons  came  in  to  adore  or  com- 
municate in  spirit  with  the  "Son  of  Man."  In  the  niche  upon 
the  right-hand  side,  stood  a  basse  relievo  of  the  Virgin  and  her 
Child.  Upon  a  table  near  by,  was  a  bronze  figure  of  the  Cru- 
cifixion, and  underneath  a  higher  portion  of  the  altar,  a  cross, 
covered  with  purple  silk — the  color  emblematical  of  the  blood 
that  gushed  from  the  wound  inflicted  by  the  spearman,  upon 
the  person  of  the  Divine  Nazarene.  On  the  other  side  was  a 
niche  dedicated  to  St.  Francis;  this  was  half  covered  with  a  parti- 
colored drapery,  which  entirely  concealed  the  face  of  the  Saint, 
but  underneath,  there  was  an  altar  composed  of  the  most  gor- 
geous flowers — whose  radiant  beauties  were  lighted  up  by  in- 
numerable candles  in  silver  candlesticks.  The  church  was 
crowded  by  those  devoted  to  the  Catholic  religion,  and  pre- 
sented a  scene  that  was  solemn  and  interesting  in  the  highest 
degree.  Our  dark-eyed  Creole  beauties,1  with  their  gilt-edged 
prayer-books  in  their  hands,  would  walk  in  with  an  air  that 
seemed  to  say  that  beauty  was  a  part  of  religion.  Dipping  their 
taper  fingers  into  the  holy  water  and  crossing  their  foreheads, 
they  would  then  walk  up  the  aisle  and  kneel  down  to  prayer. 
We  saw  many  women  there  whose  garments  betokened  that 
some  dear  friend  had  not  long  been  laid  in  the  grave.  They 
knelt  before  the  picture  of  Christ  carrying  his  cross,  and  prayed, 
no  doubt,  that  they  might  have  strength  to  carry  theirs.  Per- 
sons of  all  classes  went  down  before  the  shrine  of  Religion. 
There  was  the  broken-hearted  man  of  the  world — the  gray- 
haired  man,  whose  feet  were  on  the  brink  of  the  grave — the 
blooming  girl  whose  charms  were  budding  into  womanhood — 
and  the  wrinkled,  care-worn  widow,  to  whom  love  was  but  a 
memory.  Then  again,  were  the  old  servants  of  ancient  families; 
and  then  ragged,  pale-faced  creatures,  who  looked  as  though 
they  did  not  dare  to  approach  too  near  the  altar.  The  whole 
scene  was  beautiful  and  solemn,  and  calculated  to  impress  the 
heart  with  the  purity  of  virtue,  and  endow  the  soul  with  full  re- 
liance in  the  power  of  Him  who  rules  above.  Yesterday  was 
Good-Friday — the  anniversary  of  the  Crucifixion.  The  cere- 
monies on  this  occasion  were  of  the  most  imposing  nature,  and 
showed  reverence  and  respect  for  the  tortures  endured  by  the 
God-like  Hero  of  Calvary,  for  the  benefit  of  a  sinful  world. 
1Cf.  post,  II,  pp.  185  ff. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  223 

A  WALK  ABOUT  TOWN1 
By  a  Pedestrian 

Got  up  early  from  my  bed  in  my  little  room  near  Lafayette. 
The  sun  had  scarcely  risen,  and  every  object  seemed  lazy  and 
idle.  On  some  German  ship  moored  at  the  levee  I  saw  about  a 
dozen  stalwart  sailors  with  bare  legs,  scouring  the  decks. 
They  seemed  to  be  as  happy  as  lords,  although  their  wages 
are  sometimes  not  more  than  six  dollars  a  month.  .  .  .  Saw 
a  negro  throw  a  large  stone  at  the  head  of  his  mule,  because  it 
would  not  pull  an  empty  dray — wished  I  owned  the  negro — 
wouldn't  treat  him  as  he  treated  the  mule,  but  make  him  a 
present  of  a  cow-skin,  and  make  him  whip  himself.  .  .  . 
Saw  a  poor  long-shoreman  lying  down  on  a  bench;  had  on  a  real 
[red?]  shirt  and  blue  cottonade  pantaloons;  coarse  brogans,  but 
no  stockings.  He  had  spent  all  his  money  in  a.  tippler's  shop 
the  night  previous  for  grog,  and  when  his  last  picayune  was  dis- 
covered to  be  gone,  he  was  kicked  out  of  the  house.  Thought 
that  there  were  some  landlords  who  deserved  to  be  bastinadoed. 
.  .  .  Saw  a  shipping  master  riding  at  full  speed  upon  a  small 
pony.  He  would  have  been  willing  to  have  freighted  every 
ship  in  port,  if  he  could  have  been  "elected."  Saw  him  go  on 
board  a  vessel,  and  come  off  again,  with,  in  all  probability, 
a  flea  in  his  ear.  He  kicked  the  pony  in  his  sides,  and  after 
dismounting  went  into  the  nearest  grog-shop.  How  he  kept 
"his  spirits  up  by  pouring  spirits  down'1  He  didn't  get  the 
freight  of  that  ship.  .  .  .  The  sun  had  just  showed  his 
golden  face  above  the  gray  clouds  of  the  horizon,  and  bathes 
with  lustre  the  distant  scenery.  Now  come  the  bustle  and 
business  of  the  day.  Shop-keepers  are  opening  their  stores; 
stevedores  are  hurrying  aboard  their  respective  ships.  Those 
stevedores !  they  are  for  the  most  part  honest  men,  and,  physi- 
cally speaking,  work  much  harder  than  any  other  class  of 
the  community.  Many  of  them  have  little  tin  kettles  on  their 
arms  which  contain  their  simple  dinner  repast.  When  their 
work  is  over  they  get  their  "bones,"  and  then  separate  for  their 
different  homes  to  woo  "tired  nature's  sweet  restorer"2 — sleep; 
or  mayhap  to  spend  their  day's  earnings  in  a  grog-shop.  .  .  . 
There's  a  big,  red  faced  man  walking  hastily  up  the  levee. 

2From  the  Daily  Crescent,  April  26, 1 848. 
iCf.jnfrai  p.  207. 


224  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

He's  a  Customhouse  officer,  and  is  hurrying  on  board  his  vessel 
for  fear  that  if  not  there  by  sunrise,  the  Captain  may  report 
him  to  the  Collector.  .  .  .  Went  into  St.  Mary's  Market, 
saw  a  man,  a  good  old  man  in  a  bluejacket  and  cottonade  panta- 
loons, with  a  long  stick  of  sugar  cane  in  his  hand.  Wondered 
who  he  was,  and  much  surprised  to  find  out  that  he  was  a  law- 
yer of  some  repute.  At  the  lower  end  of  the  market  there  was  a 
woman  with  a  basket  of  live  crabs  at  her  feet.  Although  she 
loved  money,  she  had  no  particular  affection  for  a  press  from 
the  claws  of  the  ungainly  creatures  that  she  handled  with  a  pair 
of  iron  tongs.  Saw  the  "cat  fish"  man,  who  declared  that  his 
fish  were  just  caught,  and  were  as  tender  as  a  piece  of  lamb. 
Went  up  the  Market  and  saw  rounds  of  beef,  haunches  of  veni- 
son and  legs  of  mutton,  that  would  have  made  a  disciple  of 
Graham  forswear  his  hermit-like  appetite.1  .  .  .  Came 
down  town — shops  all  open — and  heard  the  news  boys  calling 
out  the  names  of  the  different  papers  that  they  had  for  sale. 
These  boys  are  "cute"  as  foxes  and  as  industrious  as  ants. 

Some  of  them  who  now  cry  out  "ere's  yer ,  here's  the , 

here's  the  ,"  may  in  time  be  sent  to  Congress.     .     .     . 

Went  down  town  further — all  was  business  and  activity — the 
clerks  placing  boxes  upon  the  pavements — the  persons  employed 
in  fancy  stores  were  bedecking  their  windows  with  their  gaudiest 
goods,  and  the  savory  smell  of  fried  ham,  broiled  beef-steaks, 
with  onions,  etc.,  stole  forth  from  the  half  unshut  doors  of  every 
restaurant.  .  .  .  Passed  down  Conti  street  and  looked  at 
the  steamboat  wharf.  It  was  almost  lined  with  steamboats; 
some  were  puffing  off  steam  and  throwing  up  to  the  sky  huge 
columns  of  blackened  smoke — some  were  lying  idle,  and  others 
discharging  sugar,  molasses,  cotton,  and  everything  else  that  is 
produced  in  the  great  Valley  of  the  Mississippi.  Came  to 
the  conclusion  that  New  Orleans  was  a  great  place  and  no  mis- 
take.  .  .  .  Went  still  further  down — visited  the  Markets 
and  saw  that  every  luxury  given  to  sinful  man  by  sea  and  land, 
from  a  shrimp  to  a  small  potato,  were  there  to  be  purchased. 
Came  home  again  and  took  breakfast — tea,  a  radish,  piece  of 
dry  toast,  and  an  egg — read  one  of  the  morning  papers,  and 
then  went  about  my  business. 

1  Sylvester  Graham  (1794-1851),  an  American  Presbyterian  clergyman,  vegetarian,  and 
inventor  of  Graham  bread. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  225 

GENERAL  TAYLOR  AT  THE  THEATRE1 

Quite  a  sensation  was  created  in  the  St.  Charles  Theatre, 
last  night,  by  the  appearance  of  Maj.  Gens.  Taylor  and  Pillow, 
with  some  other  officers  of  note,  in  the  dress  circle.  It  was  just 
as  the  model  artists,2  on  the  stage,  were  in  the  midst  of  their 
tableaux  of  the  "Circassian  Slaves,"  that  the  hero  of  Buena 
Vista,  and  his  companions,  entered  the  house.  In  the  dim 
light,  the  gas  being  turned  off  to  give  effect  to  the  perform- 
ances, the  General's  entrance  was  not  noticed  by  the  audience. 
When  the  lights  shone  out  again,  however,  the  most  vociferous 
cheering  announced  that  the  people  recognized  him.  The 
orchestra  played  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner"  and  "Hail 
Columbia" — and  the  next  tableau  was  one  purposely  compli- 
mentary to  General  Taylor.  It  was  received  with  loud  cheer- 
ing and  plaudits. 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  TERPSICHORE  BALL** 
By  "You  Know  Who" 

A  strict  adherence  to  the  truth  compells  me  to  acknowledge 
that  I  am  a  bachelor,  whether  young  or  old,  handsome  or  ugly, 
rich  or  poor,  I  will  leave  your  readers  to  guess.  I  am,  however, 
like  all  bachelors,  one  from  inclination,  not  necessity.  As  all 
philosophers  have  acknowledged  that  every  one  can  be  suited 
to  their  minds  as  regards  the  selection  of  a  wife,  why  I  should  be 
an  exception  to  the  general  rule  arises  no  doubt  from  the  fact  of 
my  being  a  resident  of  this  city  of  epidemics,  and  she  somewhere 
else,  with  no  likelihood  of  her  ever  getting  here,  so  I  have  settled 
down  [to  be]  as  comfortable  as  circumstances  will  admit,  joined 
the  "Old  Bachelor  Society,"  intending  to  prove  my  constancy 
toward  her  by  marrying  nobody.  If  this  ain't  satisfactory  and 
self-sacrificing  on  my  part,  and  sufficient  to  immortalize  me,  I 
will  keel  over  and  expire. 

Japhet  in  search  of  his  father  never  had  more  difficulties 

iFrom  the  Daily  Crescent,  May  9, 1848. 
Cf.  "  Complete  Prose,"  p.  440 

*Cf.  infra,  p.  191. 

3  From  the  Daily  Crescent,  May  18,  1848. 


226  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

to  surmount,  obstacles  to  contend  against,  and  incidents  to  be- 
fall him,  than  I  have  had  in  my  efforts  to  find  her.  I  did  not 
cease  my  labors  night  nor  day,  as  my  portfolio  will  prove,  but 
all  in  vain;  my  supplications  were  useless,  my  efforts  fruitless, 
my  dreams  and  fancies  of  no  avail.  The  following  incident 
befel  me  in  one  of  my  exploring  expeditions  after  her. 

'Twas  Saturday  evening,  cool  and  pleasant,  just  the  kind  of 
night  for  a  dance,  as  I  found  myself  with  a  few  friends,  com- 
fortably seated  in  the  Lafayette  car.  "Who  knows,"  so  ran 
my  mind,  "but  what  I  may  see  her  this  evening?  Nature  may 
repay  all  my  labors  by  showing  me  the  one  she  intends  to  share 
my  lot."  And  a  thousand  other  fanciful  thoughts  flitted  through 
my  mind,  when  "Gentlemen  will  please  make  room  for  ladies" 
assailed  my  ears  from  two  or  three  stentorian  voices.  My 
gallantry  would  not  allow  me  to  remain  one  second  after  this 
appeal;  so  I  got  up  on  deck1  as  best  I  could,  amidst  the  yelling 
of  a  crowd  of  b'hoys  trying  to  sing  "Old  Dan  Tucker."  I  was 
about  taking  a  seat,  but  finding  some  three  inches  of  the  thickest 
kind  of  dew  on  the  bench,  I  stood  it  the  balance  of  the  dis- 
tance. 

At  length  we  arrived  at  the  end  of  our  journey.  The  Trojan 
horse  could  scarcely  contain  more  persons  than  that  car;  they 
were  pouring  out  from  all  sides  and  in  every  direction.  I 
followed  the  crowd.  Arriving  at  the  ball-room  I  imagined  all 
trouble  and  inconvenience  ceased,  for  that  night.  Poor  deluded 
being!  I  forgot  I  had  a  hat,  and  that  I  should  provide  a  place 
for  it.  I  did  so,  but  suffered  some.  The  post-office  on  adver- 
tizing days2  was  nothing  to  it.  When  I  was  clear  of  the  crowd, 
I  requested  one  of  my  friends  to  squeeze  me  into  shape  again; 
I  felt  as  flat  as  a  pancake.  Did  you  ever  put  on  white  kid 
gloves3 — the  delicate  little  creatures — without  wishing  they 
were  never  known?  If  you  did  not,  I  did,  that  night.  In  the 
hurry  of  the  moment  I  bought  sevens  instead  of  nines.  I 
pulled;  I  pressed  and  pulled  again.  No  go.  I  was  determined 
to  have  them  on  or  burst.  After  a  while  I  did  both.  Although 
my  hands  looked  like  cracked  dumplings ,  I  didn't  care;  so  I  put 

1  The  street  railway  cars  of  the  New  Orleans  of  that  day  were  curious  double-decked 
affairs.  The  car  itself  was  divided  into  four  compartments — one  for  white  women,  one 
for  white  men  and  women,  one  for  those  who  wished  to  smoke,  and  one  for  negroes.  A 
pyramidal  stairway  on  the  outside  of  the  car  led  from  the  first  three  of  these  compart- 
ments to  the  upper  deck,  on  which  there  was  a  long  double  seat  and  the  driver's  box. 

*  Days  on  which  uncalled-for  letters  were  advertized  in  the  newspapers. 

8It  would  appear  that  for  once  Whitman  was  in  conventional  evening  clothes. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  227 

my  hands  behind  my  back  and  made  my  first  debut  amidst  the 
chivalry,  beauty,  loveliness,  and  exquisite  grace  congregated 
in  that  social  hall. 

The  room  was  overflowing  with  the  beauty  of  Lafayette,1 
with  a  sprinkling  from  New  Orleans  and  Carrolton.  A  prome- 
nade was  in  order  when  I  entered  and  I  watched  each  graceful 
form  and  lovely  face;  as  they  approached  like  sylphs  of  some 
fairy  tale,  in  plain,  fancy  and  mask  dresses.  Each  one,  me- 
thought,  was  more  lovely  than  the  other;  but  no,  the  object  of 
my  heart, — she  who  has  caused  me  so  many  sleepless  nights  and 
restless  days, — she  whom  I  have  seen  so  often  in  my  dreams  and 
imaginings,  was  not  among  the  unmasked.     I  rose  from  my  seat 

with  a  heavy  heart,  walked  into  the and  took  a  drink  of 

lemonade  without  any  brandy  in  it.  On  my  return,  a  cotillion 
was  in  motion.  I  looked  upon  it  with  stoic  indifference — she 
was  not  there,  and  not  being  there,  the  place  or  persons  had  no 
charms  for  me. 

While  musing  to  myself  that  I  would  emigrate  to  Europe 
or  China — get  wrecked,  perhaps — find  her  on  some  barren  isle, 
etc. — I  caught  a  glimpse  of  what  I  considered  the  very  pink  of 
perfection,  in  form,  grace  and  movement,  in  fancy  dress. 
Doctor  Collyer2  would  give  the  world  for  such  a  figure.  My 
eyes  were  riveted  on  the  spot.  My  head  began  to  swim.  I 
saw  none  but  her.  A  mist  surrounded  all  the  others,  while  she 
moved  about  in  bold  relief.  She  turned.  I  saw  her  face, 
radiant  with  smiles,  ecstasy,  delight.  "'Tis  she!"  I  ejaculated, 
as  if  tossed  by  a  pitchfork,  and  caught  the  arm  of  a  manager, 
to  introduce  me.  He  didn't  know  her.  It  was  her  first  ap- 
pearance in  the  ball-room.  I  imagined  it  was  an  auspicious 
coincidence.  It  was  also  my  first  appearance.  Seeing  a  gentle- 
man conversing  with  her,  I  watched  my  opportunity,  and  seeing 
him  alone,  I  requested  him  to  introduce  me.  Never  saw  him 
before  in  my  life;  but  what  cared  I — my  case  was  getting  des- 
perate. He  willingly  consented;  and  off  we  started  toward  her. 
To  describe  my  feelings  while  approaching  her,  is  impossible.  I 
was  blind  to  all  but  her. 

The  agony  was  over;  she  spoke;  and  the  deed  was  done.  I 
found  that  she  was  everything  that  I  imagined — accomplished, 

1  Lafayette  was  then  a  sort  of  suburb,  but  it  has  long  since  become  an  integral  part  of 
New  Orleans.  It  appears  that  Whitman  had  a  room  in  Lafayette  for  a  time.  (See  in- 
fra, p.  223.) 

2Of  Doctor  Collyer 's  Model  Artists;  cf.  injra^  p.  191. 


228  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

pleasing  in  her  manners,  agreeable  in  her  conversation,  well 
versed  in  the  authors,  from  Dryden  down  to  James1 — including 
all  the  intermediate  landings — passionately  fond  of  music,  she 
said;  and  by  her  musical  voice  I  knew  she  could  sing.  I  was 
happy  in  every  sense  of  the  word — delighted  beyond  measure. 
She  kindly  consented  to  promenade — would  carry  me  through  a 
cotillion  if  I'd  go — but,  knowing  nothing  about  the  poetry 
of  motion,  I  had  to  decline;  and  she, — noble,  generous  creature  as 
she  was! — preferred  rather  to  talk  and  walk  than  dance.  I 
admired  her,  nay,  I  will  confess,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
I  felt  the  "  tender  passion"  creeping  all  over  me.  /  was  in  love! 
I  could  not  restrain  myself.  Candor  compelled  me  to  speak 
openly — I  told  her  I  had  been  looking  for  her  since  I  was  18 
years  of  age.  "Looking  for  me!"  she  exclaimed  with  astonish- 
ment. "If  not  you,"  I  answered,  "some  one  very  much  like 
you."  She  guessed  my  object,  saw  and  understood  all,  and 
invited  me  to  call  and  see  her. 

I  was,  in  my  own  opinion,  as  good  as  a  married  man — at 
length  my  toils  and  troubles  were  to  cease — I  was  about  to  be 
repaid  for  my  constancy,  by  having  the  one  for  my  wife  that 
nature  intended.  Just  at  this  moment  where,  in  any  other 
place  I  would  have  been  on  my  knees,  the  gentleman  who  [had] 
introduced  me,  came  up  to  us  and  said — "Wife,  ain't  it  time  to 
go  home?"  "Yes,  my  dear"  she  responded.  So  taking  his 
arm,  casting  a  peculiar  kind  of  look  at  me,  and  bidding  me  good 
night,  they  left  me  like  a  motionless  statue  on  the  floor.  The 
perspiration  flowed  down  my  cheeks,  like  rain  drops — the  blood 
rushed  to  my  head — my  face  was  as  red  as  a  turkey  rooster  s — 
I  was  insensible.  Some  of  my  friends,  seeing  my  situation,  car- 
ried me  into  the ,  and  administered  another  lemonade  with 

a  little  brandy  in  it,  which  revived  me  very  shortly.  I  jumped 
into  a  cab — in  one  hour  afterwards  I  was  in  the  arms  of  Mor- 
pheus. 

It  is  very  evident  that  she  was  the  one;  and  yet  it  astonishes 
me  how  she  could  take  her  present  husband  for  me.  There  is  no 
similarity  between  us.  She  was  still  young,  and  no  chance  of 
being  an  old  maid;  while  he  appeared  as  careless  of  his  wife's 
charms  as  I  did  of  his  existence. 

I  wish  them  both  much  happiness,  altho'  I  am  the  sufferer  by 
it.2 

» George  Payne  Rainesford  James  (i  801-1860),  a  prolific  English  novelist  and  historian. 
*Cf.  infra,  p.  216,  note. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  229 


FOURIERISM1 

We  don't  know  much  about  Fourierism — that  we  confess; 
but  to  us  it  seems  a  great  objection  that  nobody,  as  far  as  we 
learn  from  the  system,  is  to  do  anything  but  be  happy.  Now 
who  would  peel  potatoes  and  scrub  the  floors?  The  N.  Y. 
Sunday  Dispatch  advocates  Fourierism,  because,  under  it,  the 
Dispatch  says,  "Music,  vocal  and  instrumental,  would  be  every- 
where cultivated,  and  each  association  would  have  its  band, 
and  its  choir,  to  furnish  music  on  all  occasions.  Music  at  sun- 
rise would  waken  all  from  sleep.  Soft  music  at  twilight,  and 
dancing  on  the  green-sward  in  summer,  or  in  the  great  saloon 
in  winter,  would  be  the  evening  recreation,  and  the  serenade 
at  night  would  make  a  thousand  happy  sleepers  dream  of 
heaven,  while  the  solemn  chorus  of  a  thousand  voices  would 
swell  the  song  of  praise  and  thanksgiving  for  a  state  of  happiness 
worthy  to  be  called  the  kingdom  of  God  on  earth — for  which, 
we  pray  as  often  as  we  say, '  Thy  kingdom  come,  Thy  will  be  done 
on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven.* " 


THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT  OF  A  YOUNG  MAN'S 

SOUL? 

When  young  Archibald  Dean  went  from  the  city — (living 
out  of  which  he  had  so  often  said  was  no  living  at  all) — went 
down  into  the  country  to  take  charge  of  a  little  district  school, 
he  felt  as  though  the  last  float-plank  which  buoyed  him  up  on 
hope  and  happiness,  was  sinking,  and  he  with  it.  But  poverty 
is  as  stern,  if  not  as  sure,  as  death  and  taxes,  which  Franklin 
called  the  surest  things  of  the  modern  age.  And  poverty  com- 
pelled Archie  Dean;  for  when  the  destructive  New- York  fire 
of  '3$  happened,  ruining  so  many  property  owners  and  erewhile 

1From  the  New  Orleans  Daily  Crescent,  May  20,  1848. 

This  brief  notice  deals  with  Fourierism  in  its  economic  aspects;  for  Whitman's  views 
of  another  Fourierist  idea,  that  of  free-love,  see  post,  II,  p.  7,  note. 

8  From  the  Union  Magazine  of  Literature  and  Art,  Vol.  II,  pp.  280-281,  June,  1848. 

Whitman  did  not  return  to  Brooklyn  from  New  Orleans  until  June  15.  This  sketch 
may  have  been  submitted  to  Mrs.  Kirkland's  magazine  before  he  went  south  or  may 
have  been  submitted  from  among  earlier  manuscripts.  At  any  rate,  I  find  in  it  no 
reflection  of  the  southern  sojourn,  though  its  date  and  theme  would  at  first  glance  lead 
the  reader  to  expect  some  indication  of  it. 


230  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

rich  merchants,  it  ruined  the  insurance  offices,  which  of  course 
ruined  those  whose  little  wealth  had  been  invested  in  their  stock. 
Among  hundreds  and  thousands  of  other  hapless  people,  the 
aged,  the  husbandless,  the  orphan,  and  the  invalid,  the  widow 
Dean  lost  every  dollar  on  which  she  depended  for  subsistence 
in  her  waning  life.  It  was  not  a  very  great  deal;  still  it  had 
yielded,  and  was  supposed  likely  to  yield,  an  income  large  enough 
for  her  support,  and  the  bringing  up  of  her  two  boys.  But, 
when  the  first  shock  passed  over,  the  cheerful-souled  woman 
dashed  aside,  as  much  as  she  could,  all  gloomy  thoughts,  and 
determined  to  stem  the  waters  of  roaring  fortune  yet.  What 
troubled  her  much,  perhaps  most,  was  the  way  of  her  son  Archi- 
bald. "Unstable  as  water,"  even  in  his  youth,  was  not  a  suf- 
ficient excuse  for  his  want  of  energy  and  resolution;1  and  she 
experienced  many  sad  moments,  in  her  maternal  reflections, 
ending  with  the  fear  that  he  would  "not  excell.,,  The  young 
man  had  too  much  of  that  inferior  sort  of  pride  which  fears  to 
go  forth  in  public  with  anything  short  of  fashionable  garments, 
and  hat  and  boots  fit  for  fashionable  criticism.  His  cheeks 
would  tingle  with  shame  at  being  seen  in  any  working  capacity; 
his  heart  sunk  within  him  if  his  young  friends  met  him  when  he 
showed  signs  of  the  necessity  of  labor,  or  of  the  absence  of 
funds.  Moreover,  Archie  looked  on  the  dark  side  of  his  life 
entirely  too  often;  he  pined  over  his  deficiencies,  as  he  called 
them,  by  which  he  meant  mental  as  well  as  pecuniary  wants. 
.  .  .  But  to  do  the  youth  justice,  his  good  qualities  must  be 
told,  too.  He  was  unflinchingly  honest;  he  would  have  laid  out 
a  fortune,  had  he  possessed  one,  for  his  mother's  comfort;  he 
was  not  indisposed  to  work,  and  work  faithfully,  could  he  do  so 
in  a  sphere  equal  to  his  ambition;2  he  had  a  benevolent,  candid 
soul,  and  none  of  the  darker  vices  which  are  so  common  among 
the  young  fellows  of  our  great  cities.3 

A  good  friend,  in  whose  house  she  could  be  useful,  furnished 
the  widow  with  a  gladly  accepted  shelter;  and  thither  she 
also  took  her  younger  boy,  the  sickly  pale  child,  the  light-haired 
little  David,  who  looked  thin  enough  to  be  blown  all  away  by 
a  good  breeze.  And  happening  accidentally  to  hear  of  a  coun- 
try district  where,  for  poor  pay  and  coarse  fare,  a  school  teacher 
was  required,  and  finding  on  inquiry  that  Archie,  who,  though 

iCf.posty  II,  pp.  193-194. 

*Cf.  infra,  pp.  4-5,  19-20;  post,  II,  pp.  125,  152. 
*Cf.posty  II,  pp.  5-8,30. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  231 

little  more  than  a  boy  himself,  had  a  fine  education,  would  fill 
the  needs  of  the  office,  thither  the  young  man  was  fain  to  betake 
himself,  sick  at  soul,  and  hardly  restraining  unmanly  tears  as 
his  mother  kissed  his  cheek,  while  he  hugged  his  brother  tightly, 
the  next  hour  being  to  find  him  some  miles  on  his  journey. 
But  it  must  be.  Had  he  not  ransacked  eVery  part  of  the  city  for 
employment  as  a  clerk?  And  was  he  not  quite  ashamed  to  be 
any  longer  a  burthen  on  other  people  for  his  support? 

Toward  the  close  of  the  first  week  of  his  employment,  the 
entering  upon  which,  with  the  feelings  and  circumstances  of 
the  beginning,  it  is  not  worth  while  to  narrate,  Archie  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  his  mother,  (strange  as  it  may  seem  to  most  men, 
she  was  also  his  confidential  friend,)  of  which  the  following  is 
part: 

" You  may  be  tired  of  such  outpourings  of  spleen,  but 

my  experience  tells  me  that  I  shall  feel  better  after  writing  them; 
and  I  am  in  that  mood  when  sweet  music  would  confer  on 
me  no  pleasure.  Pent  up  and  cribbed  here  among  a  set  of  beings 
tc  whom  grace  and  refinement  are  unknown,  with  no  sunshine 
ahead,  have  I  not  reason  to  feel  the  gloom  over  me?  Oh,  pov- 
erty, what  a  devil  thou  art!  How  many  high  desires,  how 
many  aspirations  after  goodness  and  truth  thou  hast  crushed 
under  thy  iron  heel !  What  swelling  hearts  thou  hast  sent  down 
to  the  silent  house  after  a  long  season  of  strife  and  bitterness! 
What  talent,  noble  as  that  of  great  poets  and  philosophers, 
thou  dost  doom  to  pine  in  obscurity,  or  die  in  despair!1  .  .  . 
Mother,  my  throat  chokes,  and  my  blood  almost  stops,  when  I 
see  around  me  so  many  people  who  appear  to  be  born  into  the 
world  merely  to  eat  and  sleep,  and  run  the  same  dull  monotonous 
round — and  think  that  I  too  must  fall  in  this  current,  and  live 
and  die  in  vain ! " 

Poor  youth,  how  many,  like  you,  have  looked  on  man  and  life 
in  the  same  ungracious  light!  Has  God's  all-wise  providence 
ordered  things  wrongly,  then?  Is  there  discord  in  the  machin- 
ery which  moves  systems  of  worlds,  and  keeps  them  in  their 
harmonious  orbits?  O,  no:  there  is  discord  in  your  own  heart; 
in  that  lies  the  darkness  and  the  tangle.2  To  the  young  man, 
with  health  and  a  vigilant  spirit,  there  is  shame  in  despondency. 
Here  we  have  a  world,  a  thousand  avenues  to  usefulness  and  to 
profit  stretching  in  far  distances  around  us.     Is  this  the  place  for 

1C/.  infra,  p.  19. 
*Cf.  infra,  p.  no. 


232     THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

a  failing  soul?  Is  youth  the  time  to  yield,  when  the  race  is  just 
begun? 

But  a  changed  spirit,  the  happy  result  of  one  particular 
incident,  and  of  several  trains  of  clearer  thought,  began  to  sway 
the  soul  of  Archie  Dean  in  the  course  of  the  summer:  for  it  was  at 
the  beginning  of  spring  that  he  commenced  his  labors  and  felt 
his  severest  deprivations.  There  is  surely,  too,  a  refreshing 
influence  in  open-air  nature,  and  in  natural  scenery,  with  occa- 
sional leisure  to  enjoy  it,  which  begets  in  a  man's  mind  truer 
and  heartier  reflections,  analyzes  and  balances  his  decisions,  and 
clarifies  them  if  they  are  wrong,  so  that  he  sees  his  mistakes — 
an  influence  that  takes  the  edge  off  many  a  vapory  pang,  and 
neutralizes  many  a  loss,  which  is  most  a  loss  in  imagination. 
Whether  this  suggestion  be  warranted  or  not,  there  was  no  doubt 
that  the  discontented  young  teacher's  spirits  were  eventually 
raised  and  sweetened  by  his  country  life,  by  his  long  walks  over 
the  hills,  by  his  rides  on  horseback  every  Saturday,1  his  morning 
rambles  and  his  evening  saunters;  by  his  coarse  living,  even,  and 
the  untainted  air  and  water,  which  seemed  to  make  better 
blood  in  his  veins.  Gradually,  too,  he  found  something  to  ad- 
mire in  the  character  and  customs  of  the  unpolished  countryfolk; 
their  sterling  sense  on  most  practical  subjects,  their  hospitality, 
and  their  industry. 

One  day  Archie  happened  to  be  made  acquainted  with  the 
history  of  one  of  the  peculiar  characters  of  the  neighborhood — 
an  ancient,  bony,  yellow-faced  maiden,  whom  he  had  frequently 
met,  and  who  seemed  to  be  on  good  terms  with  everybody; 
her  form  and  face  receiving  a  welcome,  with  all  their  contiguity 
[exiguity?]  and fadedness, wherever  and  whenever  they  appeared. 
In  the  girlhood  of  this  long-born  spinster,  her  father's  large  farm 
had  been  entirely  lost  and  sold  from  him,  to  pay  the  debts  in- 
curred by  his  extravagance  and  dissipation.  The  consequent 
ruin  to  the  family  peace  which  followed,  made  a  singularly  deep 
impression  on  the  girl's  mind,  and  she  resolved  to  get  the  whole 

1 A  number  of  details  in  this  sketch  seem  to  prove  it  to  be  more  autobiographical  than 
most  of  the  others.  A  school-teacher  might  have  occasion  to  ride  horseback  every  Sat- 
urday, but  Whitman,  as  a  country  editor,  did  deliver  his  weekly  papers  in  this  manner, 
and  more  than  once  he  has  ascribed  to  himself  Archie  Dean's  experience  in  learning  to 
admire  the  common  sense  of  the  country  folk.  (Cf.  "  Complete  Prose,"  p.  10;  infra,  pp. 
120-121;  post,  II,  p.  14,  etc.)  The  date  of  Archie's  being  forced  to  leave  the  city  for 
distasteful  school  teaching  is  placed  in  1835;  Whitman's  began  in  1836.  Archie's 
unusually  confiding  attitude  toward  his  mother  parallels  Whitman's  affection  for  his 
"perfect  mother."  And  Archie's  moody  pride  and  frustrated  ambition  suggest  the 
self-revelations  of  Whitman's  own  early  verse. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  233 

farm  back  again.  This  determination  came  to  form  her  life — 
the  greater  part  of  it — as  much  as  her  bodily  limbs  and  veins. 
She  was  a  shrewd  creature;  she  worked  hard;  she  received  the 
small  payment  which  is  given  to  female  labor;1  she  persisted; 
night  and  day  found  her  still  at  her  tasks,  which  were  of  every 
imaginable  description;  long — long — long  years  passed;  youth 
fled,  (and  it  was  said  she  had  been  quite  handsome);  many 
changes  of  ownership  occurred  in  the  farm  itself;  she  confided 
her  resolve  all  that  time  to  no  human  being;  she  hoarded  her 
gains;  all  other  passions — love  even,  gave  way  to  her  one  great 
resolve;  she  watched  her  opportunity,  and  eventually  con- 
quered her  object!  She  not  only  cleared  the  farm,  but  was 
happy  in  furnishing  her  old  father  with  a  home  there  for  years 
before  his  death.  And  when  one  comes  to  reflect  on  the  disad- 
vantages under  which  a  woman  labors,  in  the  strife  for  gain, 
this  will  appear  a  remarkable,  almost  an  incredible  case.  And 
then,  again,  when  one  thinks  how  surely,  though  ever  so  slowly 
and  step  by  step,  perseverance  has  overcome  apparently  in- 
superable difficulties,  the  fact— for  the  foregoing  incident  is  a  fact 
— may  appear  so  strange. 

Archie  felt  the  narrative  of  this  old  maid's  doings  as  a  rebuke 
— a  sharp-pointed  moral  to  himself  and  his  infirmity  of  purpose. 
Moreover,  the  custom  of  his  then  way  of  life  forced  him  into 
habits  of  more  thorough  activity;  he  had  to  help  himself  or  go 
unhelped;  he  found  a  novel  satisfaction  in  that  highest  kind  of 
independence  which  consists  in  being  able  to  do  the  offices  of 
one's  own  comfort,  and  achieve  resources  and  capacities  "at 
home,"  whereof  to  place  happiness  beyond  the  reach  of  variable 
circumstances,  or  of  the  services  of  the  hireling,  or  even  of  the 
uses  of  fortune.  The  change  was  not  a  sudden  one;  few  great 
changes  are.  But  his  heart  was  awakened  to  his  weakness; 
the  seed  was  sown;  Archie  Dean  felt  that  he  could  expand  his 
nature  by  means  of  that  very  nature  itself.  Many  times  he 
flagged;  but  at  each  fretful  falling  back,  he  thought  of  the 
yellow-faced  dame,  and  roused  himself  again.  .  .  .  Mean- 
time changes  occurred  in  the  mother's  condition.  Archie  was 
called  home  to  weep  at  the  death-bed  of  little  David.  Even 
that  helped  work  out  the  revolution  in  his  whole  make;  he  felt 
that  on  him  rested  the  responsibility  of  making  the  widow's  last 
years  comfortable.  "I  shall  give  up  my  teacher's  place," 
said  he  to  his  mother,  "and  come  to  live  with  you;  we  will  have 

iCf.  infr*,  p.  137. 


234  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

the  same  home,  for  it  is  best  so."  And  so  he  did.  And  the 
weakness  of  the  good  youth's  heart  never  got  entirely  the 
better  of  him  afterward,  but  in  the  course  of  a  season  was  put  to 
flight  utterly.  This  second  time  he  made  employment.  With 
an  iron  will  he  substituted  action  and  cheerfulness  for  despond- 
ency and  a  fretful  tongue.  He  met  his  fortunes  as  they  came, 
face  to  face,  and  shirked  no  conflict.  Indeed,  he  felt  it  glorious 
to  vanquish  obstacles.  For  his  mother  he  furnished  a  peaceful, 
plentiful  home;  and  from  the  hour  of  David's  death,  never  did 
his  tongue  utter  words  other  than  kindness,  or  his  lips,  whatever 
annoyances  or  disappointments  came,  cease  to  offer  their  cheer- 
fullest  smile  in  her  presence. 

Ah,  for  how  many  the  morose  habit  which  Archie  rooted  out 
from  his  nature,  becomes  by  long  usage  and  indulgence  rooted 
in,  and  spreads  its  bitterness  over  their  existence,  and  darkens 
the  peace  of  their  families,  and  carries  them  through  the  spring 
and  early  summer  of  life  with  no  inhalement  of  sweets,  and  no 
plucking  of  flowers! 


PARAGRAPH  SKETCHES  OF  BROOKLYNITES1 

Rev.  Henry  Ward  Beecher 

We  last  heard  Mr.  Beecher  at  the  Anti-Slavery  meeting  in 
the  Tabernacle,  where  the  Rynders'  boys  made  themselves  so 

i  Sixteen  of  these  brief  articles  were  contributed  by  Whitman  to  the  Brooklyn  Daily 
Advertizer,  a  Whig  paper,  between  May  18  and  June  6, 1850.  From  one  to  four  citizens 
were  "noticed"  in  each  article.  Whitman's  name  is  not  given,  but  much  of  this  ma- 
terial was  worked  over  in  the  "Brooklyniana"  and  a  little  of  it  in  the  Times  article  on 
"Reminiscences  of  Brooklyn"  (post,  II,  pp.  1-5).  It  is  probable  that  Whitman  also 
wrote  the  "Church  Sketches"  which  appeared  in  the  Advertizer  about  the  same  time  at 
the  rate  of  one  a  week,  and  which  were  published  in  the  form  of  an  illustrated  booklet, 
"The  City  of  Churches  Illustrated,"  by  the  Advertizer  press,  in  1 850.  These  new  features 
of  the  paper  were  introduced  shortly  after  the  size  of  the  sheet  and  its  general  make-up 
had  been  greatly  improved.  They  had  much  to  do  with  the  sudden  increase  of  the 
circulation  of  the  paper  at  the  time.  It  is  also  probable  that  certain  other  articles  in 
it  are  from  Whitman's  pen,  but  they  do  not  differ  materially,  in  style  or  content,  from 
those  of  the  Eagle  period. 

The  paragraph  sketch  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher  is  given  as  a  type  of  them  all,  because 
it  shows  that  Whitman  knew  and  admired  Beecher  several  years  before  the  publication 
of  the  "Leaves"  (Cf.  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  II.  p.  471,)  and  also  that  he  was 
attending  not  merely  Free-soil  but  Abolition  meetings.  The  other  local  personages 
mentioned,  in  paragraphs  of  varying  lengths,  are:  Gen.  Jeremiah  Johnson,  Col. 
Alden  Spooner,  Thomas  Kirk,  Jacob  Patchen,  Andre  Parmentier,  Samuel  Willoughby, 
H.  P.  Waring,  NorrisL.  Martin,  Losee  Van  Nostrand,  Elijah  Lewis,  Samuel  Smith,  Dr. 
Samuel  Cox,  the  Rev.  T.  B.  Thayer,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Spear,  the  Rev.  Evan  M.  Johnson, 
Nathan  B.  Morse,  Seymour  L.  Husted,  Elias  Pelletreau,  Mr.  Hartshorne,  Samuel  E. 
Clements,  H.  B.  Pierrepont,  George  Hall,  Judge  Greenwood,  Wm.  M.  Harris,  Adrian 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  235 

useful  in  standing  up  for  the  credit  of  themselves,  and  the  city 
at  large.1 

Refinement  and  artistical  beauty  of  style,  Mr.  Beecher  has 
not.  We  somewhat  wonder  at  this,  for  his  written  compositions 
are  models  of  nervous  beauty  and  classical  proportion — being 
equal  to  many  of  the  standard  English  authors*  But  refine- 
ment or  not,  you  soon  feel  that  a  strong  man  is  exercising  his 
powers  before  you.  Indeed,  it  has  sometimes  been  to  us,  per- 
haps, a  little  more  refreshing  that  his  bold  masculine  discourses 
were  without  that  prettiness  and  correctness  of  style  that,  say 
what  we  will,  is  very  often  accompanied  by  emptiness  and  some- 
thing very  akin  to  effeminacy. 

On  the  occasion  alluded  to,  Mr.  Beecher,  soon  after  the 
commencement  of  his  remarks,  was  furiously  responded  to, 
after  making  a  statement,  by  "That's  a  lie!"  from  one  of  the 
rowdies  in  the  gallery.  For  a  moment  he  turned  pale — and, 
we  have  no  doubt,  felt  the  insult  keenly.  But  abuse  and  prose- 
cution [persecution?]  are  the  spears  that  prick  such  men  as 
Beecher  on.  He  proceeded  with  his  remarks,  and  made  a  very 
vigorous  speech.2 

Carried  away  by  his  ardor  and  depth  of  conviction,  on  such 
occasions,  and  repelling  with  the  fire  of  an  unjustly  accused 
spirit,  the  taunts  of  those  who  assault  him,  Mr.  Beecher  is  no 
doubt  apt  to  show  too  palpably  how  the  wounds  smart.  In  one 
sense  we  honor  him  for  it.  But  still  we  would,  if  we  might  take 
such  a  liberty,  advise  more  coolness,  even  contempt  or  indiffer- 
ence, towards  those  who  violently  assault  him. 

The  Plymouth  Church,  the  new  place  of  worship  where  Mr. 
B.  officiates,  is  one  of  the  amplest  in  the  United  States,  and  is 
always  filled  with  a  congregation  when  the  pastor  preaches. 
It  occupies  the  site  of  the  oldest  Presbyterian  Church  of  the  city 
which,  some  time  since,  having  been  slightly  injured  by  fire,  was 
torn  down  to  make  room  for  the  present  one. 


Hegeman,  Cyrus  P.  Smith,  George  W.  Stilwell,  Rodney  S.  Church,  the  Hon.  Edward 
Copeland,  Tunis  G.  Bergen,  John  G.  Cammeyer,  Hiram  Barney,  E.  J.  Bartow, 
Jonathan  Trotter,  Augustus  and  John  B.  Graham,  Samuel  Fleet,  Joseph  Moser,  Alfred 
G.  Stevens,  B.  W.  Davis,  Thomas  G.  Gerald,  John  Dikeman,  Joseph  W.  Harper,  and  B. 
W.  Delamater. 
The  sketch  of  Beecher  appeared  in  the  Advcrtizer  of  May  25. 

» At  the  annual  meeting  of  American  and  Foreign  Anti-Slavery  Society,  on  May  9, 
1850. 

2  A  somewhat  fuller  account  of  this  incident  is  to  be  found  in  Beecher  and  Scoville's 
"A  Biography  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher,"  New  York,  1888,  pp.  252-253. 


236  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  ART  AND  BROOKLYN  ARTISTS1 

Though  the  collection  of  paintings  of  the  Brooklyn  Art  Union 
now  open,  includes  none  approaching  to  the  highest  order  of 
merit,  it  is  nevertheless  a  very  agreeable  collection,  and  con- 
tains some  works  of  taste  and  talent.  The  association  is  com- 
posed mostly  of  young  artists,  who  have  the  matter  in  their 
own  hands,  and,  by  means  of  judges,  committees,  and  so  forth, 
decide  upon  the  pictures  to  be  purchased,  the  prices  to  be  paid, 
and  the  different  other  means  of  encouraging  the  painters,  as 
well  as  advancing  the  prosperity  of  the  "establishment."  This 
thing  of  encouragement,  'specially  of  encouragement  to  the 
younger  race  of  artists,  commends  the  Brooklyn  Art  Union  to 
the  good  will  and  patronage  of  the  public.  A  great  reason  why 
the  very  large  majority  of  our  painters  are  distressingly  feeble, 
is,  the  absence  of  enough  of  such  encouragement.  How  would 
the  cause  of  education  stand  now,  were  it  not  for  the  powerful 
favor  which  is  extended  to  it  from  so  many  quarters,  apart 
from  those  who  are  directly  interested? 

Nor  is  it  too  much  to  say,  that  nearly  the  same  reasons  which 
exist  to  compel  this  favor  and  sustenance  in  behalf  of  public  edu- 
cation, will,  if  carried  out,  give  some  portion  of  the  like  waft- 
ing influences,  to  refined  art.  If  we  are  bound,  as  we  are 
by  general  acknowledgement,  to  furnish  a  fair  education  to  all 
the  children  of  the  people,  why  not  go  a  step  further,  and  do 
something  to  add  grace  to  that  education — a  polish  to  the  raw 
jaggedness  of  the  common  school  routine  ?  Nearly  all  intelligent 
boys  and  girls  have  much  of  the  artist  in  them,  and  it  were  beau- 
tiful to  give  them  an  opportunity  of  developing  it  in  one  of  the 
fine  arts. 

At  any  rate,  it  seems  to  me  that  some  organization  of  power 
to  speak  with  decision,  and  to  bring  light  out  of  the  present 
darkness,  is  very  much  needed.  For  there  are  at  the  present  mo- 
ment ten  thousand  so-called  artists,  young  and  old,  in  this 
country,  many  of  whom  are  working  in  the  dark,  as  it  were,  and 
without  aim.  They  want  a  strong  hand  over  them.  Here  is  a 
case  for  the  imperial  scepter,  even  in  America.     It  is  only  a 

iFrom  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  February  I,  1851.  This  is  introduced  with 
the  words,  "A  correspondent  furnishes  us  with  the  following,"  and  appears  on  the  edi- 
torial page.     It  is  signed  "W.  W." 

This  criticism  was  reprinted,  in  part,  in  my  article  "Walt  Whitman  at  Thirty-One/' 
in  the  New  York  Evening  Post  Book  Review,  Saturday,  June  26, 1920. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  237 

lucky  few  who  can  go  abroad.  From  that  few  are  probably 
left  out  the  very  ones  who  ought  to  go;  and  it  is  sometimes  ques- 
tioned whether  those  who  go,  are  afterward  any  the  better. 

What  a  glorious  result  it  would  give,  to  form  of  these  thou- 
sands a  close  phalanx,  ardent,  radical  and  progressive.  Now 
they  are  like  the  bundle  of  sticks  in  the  fable,  and,  as  one  by 
one,  have  no  strength.  Then,  would  not  the  advancing  years 
foster  the  growth  of  a  grand  and  true  art  here,  fresh  and  youth- 
ful, worthy  this  republic,  and  this  greatest  of  the  ages?  Would 
we  not,  at  last,  smile  in  return,  at  the  pitying  smile  with  which 
the  old  art  of  Europe  has  hitherto,  and  not  unjustly,  regarded 
ours? 

These  thousands  of  young  men,  idly  as  the  business  world 
too  generally  regards  them — and  despondingly  as  the  severe 
taste  is  fain  to  turn  oft  times  from  their  work — are  in  the  main, 
composed  of  the  nobler  specimens  of  our  race.  With  warm, 
impulsive  souls,  instinctively  generous  and  genial,  boon  com- 
panions, wild  and  thoughtless  often,  but  mean  and  sneaking 
never — such  are  these  rapidly  increasing  ones.  Unlike  the 
orthodox  sons  and  daughters  of  the  world  in  many  things,  yet 
it  is  a  picturesque  unlikeness.  For  it  need  not  argue  an  abso- 
lute miracle,  if  a  man  differ  from  the  present  dead  uniformity  of 
"society"  in  appearance  and  opinion,  and  still  retain  his  grace 
and  morals.  A  sunny  blessing,  then,  say  I,  on  the  young 
artist  race!  for  the  thrift  and  shrewdness  that  make  dollars, 
are  not  every  thing  that  we  should  bow  to,  or  yearn  for,  or  put 
before  our  children  as  the  be  all  and  the  end  all  of  human  am- 
bition. 

But  I  commenced  with  little  else  than  the  intention  of  say- 
ing a  few  words  about  some  of  the  younger  painters,  in  Brook- 
lyn. 

One  of  the  most  promising  of  these  is  Walter  Libbey;  the 
reader  may  have  noticed  some  of  his  pictures  in  the  exhibitions 
of  the  Academy,  or  the  New  York  Art  Union.  One,  lately  fin- 
ished, of  a  boy  playing  the  flute,  is  a  charming  production,  and 
would  do  credit  to  a  master.  I  don't  know  where  to  look  for  a 
picture  more  naive,  or  with  more  spirit  or  grace.  The  young 
musician  has  stopped,  by  the  way-side,  and,  putting  down  his 
basket,  seats  himself  on  a  bank.  He  has  a  brown  wool  hat,  or- 
namented with  a  feather;  rolled-up  shirt  sleeves,  a  flowing 
red  cravat  on  his  neck,  and  a  narrow  leather  belt  buckled 
round  his  waist — a  handsome,  healthy  country  boy.     The  face, 


238  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POFTRY  AND 

the  position  of  the  hands  holding  the  flute,  the  expression  of 
the  features,  are  exquisitely  fine.  I  have  looked  several  long 
looks  at  this  picture,  at  different  times,  and  each  one  with  added 
pleasure  and  admiration.  The  scene  in  the  background,  clear 
and  sunny,  is  yet  subdued  as  a  subordinate  part — a  servant  to 
the  main  purpose;  and  it  is  a  beautiful  scene,  too.  The  basket, 
half  of  which  you  see,  the  light  resting  here  and  there  on  the 
wide  withes;  the  folds  of  the  trousers,  and  their  shadowed 
creases  made  by  the  open  legs;  on  all  these,  the  work  shows  the 
true  artist.  There  is  richness  of  coloring,  tamed  to  that  hue 
of  purplish  gray,  which  we  see  in  the  summer  in  the  open  air. 
There  is  no  hardness,  and  the  eye  is  not  pained  by  the  sharpness 
of  outline  which  mars  many  otherwise  fine  pictures.  In  the 
scene  of  the  background,  and  in  all  the  accessories,  there  is  a 
delicious  melting  in,  so  to  speak,  of  object  with  object;  an  effect 
that  is  frequent  enough  in  nature,  though  painters  seem  to  dis- 
dain following  it,  even  where  it  is  demanded. 

I  returned,  the  other  day,  after  looking  at  Mount's1  las. 
work — I  think  his  best — of  a  Long  Island  negro,  the  winner  of  a 
goose  at  a  raffle;  and  though  it  certainly  is  a  fine  and  spirited 
thing,  if  I  were  to  choose  between  the  two,  the  one  to  hang  up  in 
my  room  for  my  own  gratification,  I  should  take  the  boy  with 
his  flute.  This,  too,  to  my  notion,  has  a  character  of  Ameri- 
canism about  it.  Abroad,  a  similar  subject  would  show  the 
boy  as  handsome,  perhaps,  but  he  would  be  a  young  boor,  and 
nothing  more.  The  stamp  of  class  is,  in  this  way,  upon  all  the 
fine  scenes  of  the  European  painters,  where  the  subjects  are  of  a 
proper  kind;  while  in  this  boy  of  Walter  Libbey's,  there  is  noth- 
ing to  prevent  his  becoming  a  President,  or  even  an  editor  of  a 
leading  newspaper. 

Mount's  negro  may  be  said  to  have  a  character  of  American- 
ism, too;  but  I  must  be  pardoned  for  saying,  that  I  never  could, 
and  never  will,  admire  the  exemplifying  of  our  national  attri- 
butes with  Ethiopian  minstrelsy,  or  Yankee  Hill2  characters 
upon  the  stage,  as  the  best  and  highest  we  can  do  in  that  way. 

We  have,  in  Brooklyn,  some  more  young  artists — with  others, 
of  more  established  fame — of  whom  I  should  like  to  offer  a  few 
words,  at  another  time;  for  my  talk  has  already  been  strung  out 
beyond  the  proper  limits. 

1  William  Sidney  Mount  (1807-1868),  a.  genre  painter;  born  at  Setauket,  L.  I.;  mem- 
ber of  the  National  Academy. 

2  Cf.  infra,  p.  157,  note  8. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  239 

A  LETTER  FROM  BROOKLYN1 

Brooklyn,  March  21  st. 
To  the  Editors  of  the  Evening  Post: 

That  part  of  our  city  called  South  Brooklyn,  will  soon  present 
such  a  changed  appearance,  as  to  leave  very  few  of  the  old  land- 
marks, the  hills,  or  natural  broken  places.  Bergen  Hill  is  al- 
ready nearly  gone;  large  marble  houses  stand  where  it  used  to 
slope;  while  swarms  of  sappers  and  miners  will  soon  leave  no  sign 
of  the  noble  bluff  that  has  hitherto  jutted  out  as  a  northwestern 
point  of  the  graceful  little  cove  called  Gowanus  Bay.  It  is  a 
sad  thing  to  lose  this  beautiful  bluff.  They  fill  up  the  shores 
with  it,  preparatory  to  running  out  piers  and  wharves. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  the  Atlantic  Dock,  an  immense  tract 
has  been  reclaimed  from  the  water,  by  this  filling-up  process. 
Streets  intersect  it,  and  the  prices  of  lots  range  from  three  hun- 
dred to  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  Hundreds  of  the  lots  are 
owned  by  the  Atlantic  Dock  Company,  who  occasionally  put  up 
a  batch  of  them  at  auction. 

Probably  this  will  be  (the  parts  immediately  adjacent  to 
the  dock)  quite  a  site  for  manufacturing  places.  It  has  a  great 
many  advantages  that  way,  and  there  is  already  one  large  manu- 
factory there.  The  immense  storehouses  on  the  interior  of  the 
dock  would  have  answered  for  Joseph  to  store  the  grain  of 
Egypt,  preparatory  to  the  year  of  famine. 

All  this  part  of  Brooklyn  will  have,  when  settled,  a  look  of 
newness  and  modern  style.  For  every  house  will  have  been 
built  within  the  last  few  years.  The  upper  streets,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Court  Street,  are  quite  of  the  plebeian  order.  Reser- 
vations are  made,  when  the  lots  are  sold,  which  cause  all  the 
houses  to  be  of  large  and  costly  structure.  Just  north  and  east 
of  Hamilton  avenue,  by  the  ferry,  there  are  many  very  pleasant 
and  genteel  rows  of  houses. — Nearly  all  of  the  men  who  occupy 
them  do  business  in  New  York. 

Hamilton  ferry  is  rapidly  becoming  one  of  the  great  channels 
of  travel;  it  grows  even  more  rapidly  than  the  South  ferry  did. 

!From  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  March  2X,  1851. 

This  letter  is  signed  "W.,"  and  is  clearly  Whitman's,  not  only  because  it  belongs  to  a 
period  when  he  is  known  to  have  been  writing  for  the  Evening  Post,  but  also  because  of  the 
similarity  between  its  style  and  content  and  the  "Brooklyniana,"  to  say  nothing  of  the 
Eagle  editorials.  Moreover,  it  promises  the  letters  from  "Paumanok,"  easily  identified 
as  Whitman's. 


24o  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

It  is  already  a  much  more  agreeable  line  to  cross  than  the  Main 
street  or  Hudson  avenue  ferry,  and  will  doubtless  be  added 
to,  as  the  neighborhood  which  gives  it  sustenance  shall  in- 
crease. 

Hamilton  avenue  will  eventually  be  the  principal  road  to 
Greenwood  Cemetery.  It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  it  has 
not  become  so  already.  It  is  direct,  and  much  shorter  than  any 
other  way. 

Over  the  Penny  Bridge,  and  along  a  winding  road  which  is 
nothing  more  than  a  wide  dam,  one  reaches  Third  avenue,  the 
principal  thoroughfare  of  those  diggins,  and  which  generally 
goes  by  the  name  of  Greenwood.  It  has  lately  been  raised, 
graded,  and  handsomely  paved,  thus  becoming  one  of  the  widest 
and  finest  of  streets,  stretching  away  off  toward  New  Utrecht, 
along  by  the  shore  where  the  beautiful  residences  are. 

Greenwood  Cemetery  has  lately  established  a  new  general  en- 
trance, some  half  a  mile  beyond  the  former  one,  that  being  used 
merely  for  funerals.  The  old  one  is  far  the  more  grand  and 
impressive.  Indeed,  it  is  doubtful  whether  there  is  a  finer  or 
more  nobly  picturesque  scene,  of  its  sort,  any  where  to  be  found, 
than  that  old  entrance  to  Greenwood. 

The  Fifth  avenue,  a  long  and  wide  street,  which  was  opened 
and  put  in  barely  travelling  order  a  year  or  two  since,  yet  re- 
mains unpaved  and  unregulated.  This  is  a  pity,  for  it  is  a  high, 
fine  street,  and  would  make  an  agreeable  part  of  a  drive. 

The  old  brick  house,  with  "  1-6-9-9"  on  ^ts  ga°le  end,1  stands 
upon  Fifth  avenue.  This  is  a  famous  old  house,  and  when 
I  can  get  hold  of  the  right  sort  of  persons  among  the  old  Dutch- 
men, I  intend  to  pump  forth  all  that  is  attributed  to,  or  con- 
nected with,  that  house,  in  the  way  of  reminiscence,  ghost- 
story,  and  such  like.  We  have  too  few  of  those  treasures,  to  let 
any  of  them  slide  away,  when  they  can  be  arrested. 

A  good  deal  of  the  local  character  of  the  South  Ferry  neigh- 
borhood, comes  from  its  being  the  terminus  of  the  Long  Island 
Railroad.  This  unfortunate  property  will,  one  day,  without 
doubt,  become  very  valuable.  As  the  land  fills  up — and  it  is 
filling  up,  all  along  the  road,  with  numerous  little  villages  and 
settlements — the  cars  will  have  more  and  steadier  passengers. 
Certain  serious  financial  troubles,  under  which  the  company 
has  labored  for  some  time  past,  have  been  settled  much  less 
injuriously  to  the  concern  than  was  feared,  and  the  road  is  now 

1  Cf.  post,  p.  II,  226. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  241 

under  fair  auspices  again.  It  is  intended,  the  coming  summer, 
to  run  two  through  trains  between  the  extremities  of  the  road, 
daily. 

With  this  means  of  travel,  running  like  a  backbone  through 
Long  Island,  and  the  numerous  steamboat  lines  on  the  sound, 
who  shall  say  that  old  Paumanok  is  not  accessible?  And  let  it 
be  also  said,  by  one  who  has  learned  the  same  from  his  own  in- 
vestigations, that  many  summer  travellers  go  farther  and  fare 
worse.  The  eastern  parts  of  Long  Island  are  rich  mines  for 
those  who  love  original  and  peculiar  character;  as  I  purpose  to 
show,  in  notes  to  the  Evening  Post,  some  time  during  the  sum- 
mer. For  thither  I  wend  my  way  with  the  hot  season,  and  like 
it  far  better  than  I  could  ever  like  Saratoga  or  Newport. 


ART  AND  ARTISTS1 

Remarks  of  Walt  Whitman,  before  the  Brooklyn  Art 
Union,  on  the  Evening  of  March  31,  1851 

Among  such  a  people  as  the  Americans,  viewing  most  things 
with  an  eye  to  pecuniary  profit — more  for  acquiring  than  for 
enjoying  or  well  developing  what  they  acquire — ambitious  of 
the  physical  rather  than  the  intellectual;  a  race  to  whom  matter 
of  fact  is  everything,  and  the  ideal  nothing — a  nation  of  whom 
the  steam  engine  is  no  bad  symbol — he  does  a  good  work  who, 
pausing  in  the  way,  calls  to  the  feverish  crowd  that  in  the  life 
we  live  upon  this  beautiful  earth,  there  may,  after  all,  be  some- 
thing vaster  and  better  than  dress  and  the  table,  and  business 
and  politics. 

There  was  an  idle  Persian  hundreds  of  years  ago  who  wrote 
poems;  and  he  was  accosted  by  one  who  believed  more  in 
thrift. — "Of  what  use  are  you?"  inquired  the  supercilious  son 
of  traffic.  The  poet  turning  plucked  a  rose  and  said,  "Of  what 
use  is  this?"  "To  be  beautiful,  to  perfume  the  air,"  answered 
the  man  of  gains.  "And  I,"  responded  the  poet,  "am  of  use 
to  perceive  its  beauty  and  to  smell  its  perfume." 

It  is  the  glorious  province  of  Art,  and  of  all  Artists  worthy 
the  name,  to  disentangle  from  whatever  obstructs  it,  and 
nourish  in  the  heart  of  man,  the  germ  of  the  perception  of  the 
truly  great,  the  beautiful  and  the  simple. 

»From  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Jcloerdzer^  April  3,  1851. 


242  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

When  God,  according  to  the  myth,  finished  Heaven  and 
Earth — when  the  lustre  of  His  effulgent  light  pierced  the  cold 
and  terrible  darkness  that  had  for  cycles  of  ages  covered  the 
face  of  the  deep — when  the  waters  gathered  themselves  to- 
gether into  one  place  and  made  the  sea — and  the  dry  land  ap- 
peared with  its  mountains  and  its  infinite  variety  of  valley,  shore 
and  plain — when  in  the  sweetness  of  that  primal  time  the  un- 
speakable splendor  of  the  sunrise  first  glowed  on  the  bosom 
of  the  earth — when  the  stars  hung  at  night  afar  off  in  this  most 
excellent  canopy,  the  air,  pure,  solemn,  eternal — when  the 
waters  and  the  earth  obeyed  the  command  to  bring  forth  abund- 
antly, the  beasts  of  the  field,  the  birds  of  the  air  and  the  fishes  of 
the  sea — and  when,  at  last,  the  superb  perfection,  Man,  ap- 
peared, epitome  of  all  the  rest,  fashioned  after  the  Father  and 
Creator  of  all — then  God  looked  forth  and  saw  everything  that 
he  had  made,  and  pronounced  it  good.  Good  because  ever  re- 
productive of  its  first  beauty,  finish  and  freshness.  For  just 
as  the  Lord  left  it  remains  yet  the  beauty  of  His  work.  It  is 
now  spring.  Already  the  sun  has  warmed  the  blood  of  this 
old  yet  ever  youthful  earth  and  the  early  trees  are  budding  and 
the  early  flowers  beginning  to  bloom : 

There  is  not  lost,  one  of  Earth's  charms 
Upon  her  bosom  yet 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  still  shall  lie.1 

With  this  freshness — with  this  that  the  Lord  called  good — 
the  Artist  has  to  do. — And  it  is  a  beautiful  truth  that  all  men 
contain  something  of  the  artist  in  them.  And  perhaps  it 
is  sometimes  the  case  that  the  greatest  artists  live  and  die, 
the  world  and  themselves  alike  ignorant  what  they  possess. 
Who  would  not  mourn  that  an  ample  palace  of  surpassingly 
graceful  architecture,  filled  with  luxuries  and  gorgeously  em- 
bellished with  fair  pictures  and  sculpture,  should  stand  cold  and 
still  and  vacant,  and  never  be  known  and  enjoyed  by  its  owner? 

»A  reprint  of  this  speech  in  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle  (July  14, 1900)  failed  to  preserve 
as  verse  this  quotation  from  Bryant's  "  Forest  Hymn. "  The  error  was  not  corrected  in 
Professor  Perry's  "Walt  Whitman,"  he  having  access  only  to  the  Eagle  reprint.  But 
the  correct  version  is  interesting  in  that  it  shows  how,  by  a  slight  alteration  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  lines  of  Bryant,  Whitman  managed  to  secure  an  effect  not  unlike  that 
of  the  new  verse  on  which  he  was  then  working.  It  will  be  remembered  that  Whitman 
himself  had  experimented  a  little  ia  blank  verse.     (See  infray  pp.  19-ao.) 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  243 

Would  such  a  fact  as  this  cause  your  sadness?  Then  be  sad. 
For  there  is  a  palace,  to  which  the  courts  of  the  most  sumptuous 
kings  are  but  a  frivolous  patch,  and,  though  it  is  always  waiting 
for  them,  not  one  in  thousands  of  its  owners  ever  enters  there 
with  any  genuine  sense  of  its  grandeur  and  glory. 

To  the  artist,  I  say,  has  been  given  the  command  to  go  forth 
into  all  the  world  and  preach  the  gospel  of  beauty.  The 
perfect  man  is  the  perfect  artist,  and  it  cannot  be  other- 
wise.1 For  in  the  much  that  has  been  said  of  Nature  and  Art 
there  is  mostly  the  absurd  error  of  considering  the  two  as  dis- 
tinct. Rousseau,  himself,  in  reality  one  of  the  most  genuine 
artists,  starting  from  his  false  point,  ran  into  his  beautiful  en- 
comiums upon  nature  and  his  foolish  sarcasms  upon  art.  To 
think  of  what  happened  when  that  restless  and  daring  spirit 
ceased  to  animate  one  of  the  noblest  apostles  of  democracy,  is 
itself  answer  enough  to  all  he  ever  said  in  condemnation  of  art. 
The  shadows  from  the  west  were  growing  longer,  as  Rousseau, 
at  the  close  of  a  beautiful  summer  day,  felt  death  upon  him. 
"Let  me  behold  once  more  the  glorious  setting  sun,"  was  his 
last  request.  With  his  eyes  turned  toward  the  more  than  im- 
perial pomp  and  with  the  soft  and  pure  harmonies  of  nature 
around  him,  his  wild  and  sorrowful  life  came  to  an  end,  and  he 
departed  peacefully  and  happily.  Do  you  think  Rousseau 
would  have  passionately  enjoyed  the  sunset,  those  clouds,  the 
beauty,  and  the  natural  graces  there,  had  such  things  as  art 
and  artists  never  existed  ?  Was  not  his  death  made  happier  than 
his  life,  by  what  he  so  often  ridiculed  in  life  ? 

Nay,  may  not  death  itself,  through  the  prevalence  of  a  more 
artistic  feeling  among  the  people,  be  shorn  of  many  of  its 
frightful  and  ghastly  features?  In  the  temple  of  the  Greeks, 
Death  and  his  brother  Sleep,  were  depicted  as  beautiful  youths 
reposing  in  the  arms  of  Night.  At  other  times  Death  was  rep- 
resented as  a  graceful  form,  with  calm  but  drooping  eyes,  his 
feet  crossed  and  his  arms  leaning  on  an  inverted  torch.  Such 
were  the  soothing  and  solemnly  placed  influences  which  true 

*This  is  not  the  place  to  enter  in  detail  into  a  study  of  Whitman's  indebtedness  to 
Emerson;  but  inasmuch  as  the  date  and  the  extent  of  that  indebtedness  have  been 
matters  of  dispute,  it  is  necessary  here  to  call  attention  to  the  close  kinship  between  the 
ideas  and  the  treatment  of  this  address  and  Emerson's  earlier  work.  This  essay  seems  to 
have  been  written  under  the  inspiration,  first,  of  the  lecture  referred  to,  and  second, 
of  "The  American  Scholar"  and  "The  Divinity  School  Address,"  the  artist  being  sub- 
stituted for  the  scholar  without  affecting  the  Emersonian  nature-philosophy  in  the  least. 
Even  the  anecdote  of  the  "idle  Persian,"  though  it  may  not  have  come  through  Emerson, 
reads  like  a  prose  "  Rhodora."    Cf.  infra,  p.  132. 


244  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

art,  identical  with  a  perception  of  the  beauty  that  there  is  in 
all  the  ordinations  as  well  as  all  the  works  of  Nature,  cast 
over  the  last  fearful  thrill  of  those  olden  days.  Was  it  not 
better  so?  Or  is  it  better  to  have  before  us  the  idea  of  our 
dissolution,  typified  by  the  spectral  horror  upon  the  pale  horse, 
by  a  grinning  skeleton  or  a  mouldering  skull  ? 

The  beautiful  artist  principle  sanctifies  that  community 
which  is  pervaded  by  it.  A  halo  surrounds  forever  that  nation. 
— There  have  been  nations  more  warlike  than  the  Greeks. 
Germany  has  been  and  is  more  intellectual.  Inventions, 
physical  comforts,  wealth  and  enterprize  are  prodigiously 
greater  in  all  civilized  nations  now  than  they  were  among  the 
countrymen  of  Alcibiades  and  Plato.  But  never  was  there 
such  an  artistic  race. 

At  a  neighboring  city,  the  other  evening  was  given,  by  a 
lecturer,1  a  beautiful  description  of  this  character,  making 
it  a  model  that  few  in  these  days  would  think  of  successfully 
copying.  The  Greek  form,  he  described  as  perfect,  the  mind 
well  cultivated  as  to  those  things  which  are  useful  and  pleasing; 
the  man,  as  familiar  with  the  history  of  his  country,  not  seeking 
office  for  his  emoluments  or  dignity,  believing  that  no  office 
confers  dignity  upon  him  who  bears  it,  but  that  the  true  dignity 
of  office  arises  from  the  character  of  the  man  who  holds  it,  and 
the  manner  in  which  he  administers  it.  He  is  not  elated  with 
honors  or  discomposed  with  ill  success, — pursues  his  course 
with  firmness,  yet  with  moderation;  and  seeks  not  honors  or 
profit  for  the  services  rendered  his  country,  which  he  loves  better 
than  himself.  He  is  neither  penurious  nor  extravagant;  does 
not  court  the  rich  nor  stand  aloof  from  the  poor.  He  can  appre- 
ciate excellence  whether  clothed  in  the  apparel  of  the  affluent 
or  of  the  indigent;  is  no  respector  of  persons,  remembering  that 
manly  worth  cannot  be  monopolized  by  any  circle  of  society. 
He  can  mingle  in  festive  scenes,  and  seek  in  them  the  feasts  of 
reason  as  well  as  the  flow  of  soul;2  his  entertainments  are  pre- 


1This  was  perhaps  Daniel  Huntington's  address  before  the  American  Artists' Associa- 
tion, in  New  York,  on  the  evening  of  March  n.  His  subject  was  "Christian  Art," 
and  the  lecture  was  repeated  for  the  benefit  of  the  public  on  March  25.  Or  Whitman 
might  have  had  in  mind  Parke  Godwin's  lecture  on  "The  Philosophy  of  Art,"  delivered 
before  the  Academy  of  Design  on  March  10.  The  press  reports  that  I  have  found  are 
too  scanty  to  make  identification  easy. 

2Cy.  Pope's  "The  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul"  ("The  First  Satire  of  the 
Second  Book  of  Horace,"  1.  128.) 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  245 

pared  for  the  intellect  as  well  as  the  physical  appetite.  The 
lyre  and  song,  the  harp  and  recital  of  heroic  verse — sculpture, 
painting,  music,  poetry,  as  well  as  grave  philosophical  dis- 
course— each  in  its  turn  becomes  the  channel  of  a  refined  and  ele- 
vated pleasure.  As  a  soldier,  he  acts  upon  the  principle  that 
"thrice  is  he  armed  who  has  his  quarrel  just,"1  and  appeals  to 
force  only  when  negotiations  fail,  but  then  with  terrific  energy. 
He  counts  no  sacrifice  too  great  for  his  country.  Dying,  his 
proudest  boast  is,  that  "no  Athenian,  through  his  means,  ever 
had  cause  to  put  on  mourning." 

Yes,  distracted  by  frippery,  cant,  and  vulgar  selfishness — 
sick  even  of  the  "intelligence  of  the  age" — it  refreshes  the  soul 
to  bring  up  again  one  of  that  glorious  and  manly  and  beautiful 
nation,  with  his  sandals,  his  flowing  drapery,  his  noble  and 
natural  attitudes  and  the  serene  composure  of  his  features.  Im- 
agination loves  to  dwell  there,  revels  there,  and  will  not  turn 
away.  There  the  artist  appetite  is  gratified;  and  there  all  ages 
have  loved  to  turn  as  to  one  of  the  most  perfect  ideals  of  man. 

The  orthodox  specimen  of  the  man  of  the  present  time,  ap- 
proved of  public  opinion  and  the  tailor,  stands  he  under  the 
glance  of  art  as  stately?  His  contempt  for  all  there  is  in  the 
world,  except  money  can  be  made  of  it;2  his  utter  vacuity  of 
anything  more  important  to  him  as  a  man  than  success  in 
"business," — his  religion  what  is  written  down  in  the  books,  or 
preached  to  him  as  he  sits  in  his  rich  pew,  by  one  whom  he  pays 
a  round  sum,  and  thinks  it  a  bargain, — his  only  interest  in  af- 
fairs of  state,  getting  offices  or  jobs  for  himself  or  someone  who 
pays  him — so  much  for  some  points  of  his  character. 

Then  see  him  in  all  the  perfection  of  fashionable  tailordom — 
the  tight  boot  with  the  high  heel;  the  trousers,  big  at  the  ankle, 
on  some  rule  inverting  the  ordinary  ones  of  grace;  the  long 
large  cuffs,  and  thick  stiff  collar  of  his  coat — the  swallow-tailed 
coat,  on  which  dancing  masters  are  inexorable;  the  neck  swathed 
in  many  bands,  giving  support  to  the  modern  high  and  pointed 
shirt  collar,  that  fearful  sight  to  an  approaching  enemy — the 
modern  shirt  collar,  bold  as  Columbus,  stretching  off  into  the 
unknown  distance — and  then  to  crown  all,  the  fashionable  hat, 
before  which  language  has  nothing  to  say,  because  sight  is  the 
only  thing  that  can  begin  to  do  it  justice — and  we  have  indeed 
a  model  for  the  sculptor.     Think  of  it;  a  piece  of  Italian  marble, 

iC/."Thrice  is  he  arm'd  that  hath  his  quarrel  just"  ("King  Henry  VI,"  Pt.  2,  III,  2). 
2C/.  infra,  pp.  37-39,  iii,  123-125;  post,  II,  p.  63,  67. 


246  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

chiselled  away  till  it  gets  to  the  shape  of  all  this,  hat  included, 
and  then  put  safely  under  storage  as  our  contribution  to  the 
future  ages,  taste  for  our  artistical  proportion,  grace,  and  har- 
mony of  form.1 

I  think  of  few  heroic  actions  which  cannot  be  traced  to  the 
artistical  impulse.  He  who  does  great  deeds,  does  them  from 
his  sensitiveness  to  moral  beauty.  Such  men  are  not  merely 
artists,  they  are  artistic  material.  Washington  in  some  great 
crisis,  Lawrence  in  the  bloody  deck  of  the  Chesapeake,  Mary 
Stewart2  at  the  block,  Kossuth  in  captivity  and  Mazzini  in  exile, 
— all  great  rebels  and  innovators,  especially  if  their  intellectual 
majesty  bears  itself  out  with  calmness  amid  popular  odium  or 
circumstances  of  cruelty  and  an  infliction  of  suffering,  exhibit 
the  highest  phases  of  the  artistic  spirit.  A  sublime  moral  beauty 
is  present  to  them,  and  they  realize  them.  It  may  be  almost 
said  to  emanate  from  them.  The  painter,  the  sculptor,  the  poet 
express  heroic  beauty  better  in  description;  for  description  is 
their  trade,  and  they  have  learned  it.  But  the  others  are 
heroic  beauty,  the  best  beloved  of  art. 

Talk  not  so  much,  then,  young  artist,  of  the  great  old  masters, 
who  but  painted  and  chiselled.  Study  not  only  their  produc- 
tions. There  is  a  still  better,  higher  school  for  him  who 
would  kindle  his  fire  with  coal  from  the  altar  of  the  loftiest 
and  purest  art.  It  is  the  school  of  all  grand  actions  and  grand 
virtues,  of  heroism,  of  the  death  of  captives  and  martyrs — of 
all  the  mighty  deeds  written  in  the  pages  of  history — deeds  of 
daring,  and  enthusiasm,  and  devotion,  and  fortitude.  Read 
well  the  death  of  Socrates,  and  of  a  greater  than  Socrates.  Read 
how  slaves  have  battled  against  their  oppressors — how  the 
bullets  of  tyrants  have,  since  the  first  king  ruled,  never  been 
able  to  put  down  the  unquenchable  thirst  of  man  for  his  rights. 

In  the  sunny  peninsula  where  Art  was  transplanted  from 
Greece  and,  generations  afterward,  flourished  into  new  life,  we 
even  now  see  the  growth  that  is  to  be  expected  among  a  people 
pervaded  by  love  and  appreciation  of  beauty.  In  Naples,  in 
Rome,  in  Venice,  that  ardor  for  liberty  which  is  a  constituent 

lCf.  infra,  pp.  162-163. 

»When  Whitman  selected  a  fragment  of  this  speech  as  one  of  the  "Pieces  in  Early 
Youth"  which  he  preserved  in  his  "Complete  Prose"  (pp.  371-372),  he  not  only  cor- 
rected this  error  in  spelling,  but  otherwise  altered  and  improved  this  paragraph  and  the 
following  one.  Probably  he  possessed  at  that  time  only  a  stray  page  of  the  manuscript 
for  certainly  he  could  have  selected  few  things  from  his  writings  before  1855  which  better 
deserved  to  be  preserved  entire  than  this  speech. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  247 

part  of  all  well  developed  artists  and  without  which  a  man  can- 
not be  such,  has  had  a  struggle — a  hot  and  baffled  one.  The 
inexplicable  destinies  have  shaped  it  so.  The  dead  lie  in 
their  graves;  but  their  august  and  beautiful  enthusiasm  is  not 
dead: — 

Those  corpses  of  young  men, 

Those  martyrs  that  hung  from  the  gibbets, 

Those  hearts  pierced  by  the  gray  lead, 

Cold  and  motionless  as  they  seem, 

Live  elsewhere  with  undying  vitality; 

They  live  in  other  young  men,  O  kings, 

They  live  in  brothers  again  ready  to  defy  you; 

They  were  purified  by  death, 

They  were  taught  and  exalted. 

Not  a  grave  of  those  slaughtered  ones, 

But  is  growing  its  seed  of  freedom, 

In  its  turn  to  bear  seed, 

Which  the  winds  shall  carry  afar  and  re-sow, 

And  the  rain  nourish. 

Not  a  disembodied  spirit 

Can  the  weapons  of  tyrants  let  loose, 

But  it  shall  stalk  invisibly  over  the  earth, 

Whispering,  counseling,  cautioning.1 

I  conclude  here. — As  there  can  be  no  true  Artist,  without  a 
glowing  thought  for  freedom,  so  freedom  pays  the  artist  back 
again  many  fold,  and  under  her  umbrage  Art  must  sooner  or 
later  tower  to  its  loftiest  and  most  perfect  proportions. 


LETTERS  FROM  PAUMANOK 

[No.  i]2 

Greenport,  L.  I.,  June  25. 

The  Place  and  Its  Surroundings 

Swarming  and  multitudinous  as  the  population  of  the  city 
still  is,  there  are  many  thousands  of  its  usual  inhabitants  now 
absent  in  the  country.     Some  are  sent  away  by  the  hot  weather, 

1  Quoted  from  Whitman's  own  early  free-verse  poem, "  Resurgemus,"  (infra,  pp.27-30). 

3From  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  June  27,  1851. 

This  letter  is  signed  "N,"  perhaps  a  typographical  error. 


248  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

many  by  "the  prevailing  custom";  others  again  by  desire 
for  change. 

Having  neither  the  funds  nor  disposition  to  pass  my  little 
term  of  ruralizing  at  the  fashionable  baths,  or  watering  places, 
I  am  staying  awhile  down  here  at  Greenport,  the  eastern 
point  of  the  Long  Island  Railroad.  That  is,  my  lodging  is 
at  Greenport;  but,  in  truth,  I  "circulate"  in  all  directions 
around. 

Greenport  is  celebrated  for  its  good  harbor,  its  salt  water, 
and  its  fish.  The  kind  of  the  latter  now  most  plentiful  is  the 
poggy  (sometimes  misspelt  porgie1).  It  is  a  good  fish,  and 
easily  caught.  The  black  fish  are  just  beginning  to  come  in. 
The  blue  fish,  however,  are  the  most  delicious,  to  my  taste. 
Cooked  while  perfectly  fresh,  and  not  salted  till  fried,  or  broiled, 
they  are  fit  for  the  most  refined  epicure. 

The  fish  in  Peconic  Bay  and  its  neighborhood  are  not  quite 
so  abundant  as  last  season.2  Still,  there  are  enough  to  reward 
the  labor  of  the  sportsmen. 

How  I  Amuse  Myself 

The  best  amusements  in  a  country  place,  by  the  salt  water, 
are  the  cheapest.  Generally,  the  one  who  takes  the  most 
trouble  to  obtain  pleasure,  gets  the  least,  or  that  which  is  most 
questionable. 

Now,  for  instance,  the  fields,  the  waters,  the  trees,  the 
interesting  specimens  of  humanity  to  be  scared  up  in  all 
quarters  of  this  diggins — all  are,  for  me,  ministers  to  entertain- 
ment. 

Can  there  be  any  thing  of  the  old  gossip  in  my  composition  ? 
For  I  hugely  like  to  accost  the  originals  I  see  all  around  me, 
and  to  set  them  agoing  about  themselves  and  their  neighbors 
near  by.  It  is  more  refreshing  than  a  comedy  at  any  of  the 
New  York  theatres.     The  very  style  of  their  talk  is  a  treat. 

Bathing  in  this  clear,  pure,  salt  water,  twice  every  day, 
is  one  of  my  best  pleasures.  Generally  the  water  is  so  clear 
that  you  can  see  to  a  considerable  depth.     I  must  have  the 

1Whitman  is,  of  course,  in  error;  porgie  is  the  more  common  spelling,  though  poggy 
is  also  correct. 

'If  this  statement  were  based  on  Whitman's  personal  experience,  it  would  establish 
definitely  where  he  was  during  the  summer  of  1850,  a  matter  concerning  which  bi- 
ography is  as  yet  largely  in  the  dark. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  249 

bump  of  "aquativeness"1  large;  dear  to  me  is  a  souse  in  the 
waves.  Dear,  oh,  dear  to  me  is  Coney  Island!  Rockaway,  too, 
and  many  other  parts  of  sea-girt  Paumanok. 

Some  Folks'  Way  of  "Going  in  the  Country" 

Now  all  the  public  houses,  and  not  a  few  of  the  private 
houses,  in  this  section  of  Long  Island,  are  beginning  to  be  filled 
with  boarders — men,  women,  and  children — particularly  the 
latter.  It  is  a  pity  that  these  folks  don't  enjoy  themselves  in 
a  more  free  and  easy  manner.  They  evidently  preserve  all  the 
ceremoniousness  of  the  city — dress  regularly  for  dinner,  fear  to 
brown  their  faces  with  the  sun,  or  wet  their  shoes  with  the 
dew,  or  let  the  wind  derange  the  well  sleeked  precision  of  their 
hair. 

Indeed,  for  all  the  good  they  get,  they  might  just  as  well 
remain  in  a  New  York  or  Brooklyn  boarding-house;  except 
that  they  are  a  little  more  crowded  here,  perhaps.  They  hardly 
derive  even  the  benefit  of  the  pure  air,  for  they  remain  in  the 
house  nearly  all  day. 

I  am  convinced  that  there  are  really  very  few  people  who  know 
how  to  enjoy  the  country,  either  for  its  land  or  water  accommo- 
dations.    Not  many  even  of  its  permanent  residents  do. 

Gentility  in  Country  Boarding  Houses 

While  I  am  upon  such  matters,  let  me  give  a  word  of  advice 
to  those  who  conduct  the  country  boarding  houses.  People 
don't  so  much  want  any  attempts  at  gentility  in  your  places; 
to  which  they  ought  to  come  for  relief  from  the  glare  and  stiff- 
ness of  the  city.  We  folks  from  the  region  of  pavements  are 
too  much  used  to  pianos,  fashionable  carpets,  mahogany  chairs, 
to  be  seriously  impressed  by  them  when  we  go  in  the  country. 
We  would  as  leave,  during  the  hot  weather,  when  we  stay  among 
you,  even  be  without  carpets,  pianos  and  flummery.  Only 
let  us  have  plenty  of  cleanliness,  water  by  the  wholesale,  and 
abundance  of  the  rich  fresh  fare  of  your  country  dairy,  and 
country  gardens. 

lA  humorous  reference  to  the  new  science  of  phrenology,  as  it  was  then  called,  by 
which  Whitman  was  really  much  impressed,  having  had  his  own  head  analyzed  in  detail. 

See  "  In  Re  Walt  Whitman,"  p.  25.  It  was  from  the  terminology  of  the  phrenologists 
that  Whitman  selected  a  word  to  denote  the  manly  friendship  which  inspires  the  "Cala> 
mus"  poems — "adhesiveness." 


250  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

♦.LETTERS  FROM  PAUMANOK 
[No.   2]1 

Greenport,  L.  I.,  June  28th. 
A  Village  With  a  New  Name 

The  turnpike  on  the  peninsula  of  which  Orient,  (formerly 
Oysterponds,)  is  the  eastern  point,  is  a  pleasant  and  thrifty 
looking  road.  It  is  laid  quite  thickly  with  farm  cottages,  none 
of  them  very  grand  in  their  appearance;  but  then  there  are 
hardly  any  that  seem  remarkably  mean,  either. 

One  new  and  costly  house,  on  the  north  side  of  the  turnpike, 
is  the  residence  of  Dr.  Lord,  formerly  member  of  Congress,  and 
the  owner  of  large  tracts  of  land  here. 

Strolling  on  through  the  neighborhood,  I  came  to  a  thicker 
collection  of  houses,  formerly  known  as  Rocky  Point,  but  now 
christened  with  the  more  romantic  appellation  of  "Marion." 

Very  great  confusion  arises  on  Long  Island,  from  the  numer- 
osity  of  names,  belonging  to  one  and  the  same  place.  Hardly 
one  fourth  of  the  neighborhoods  retain  the  same  names  for 
twenty  years  in  succession!  Letters,  packages,  and  even  trav- 
ellers are  constantly  getting  lost,  through  this  unfortunate  pro- 
pensity. 

I  Make  the  Acquaintance  of  an  Old  Fellow 

As  I  was  passing  the  "store"  at  Marion,  I  was  accosted  by  an 
old  fellow,  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a  clam-basket  and  hoe 
in  his  hands.  He  had  evidently  put  a  dram  or  two  into  his 
stomach,  more  than  it  could  cleverly  stand;  but  it  probably 
made  him  better  company  than  he  would  have  been  without  the 
liquor. 

I  must  give  you  a  description  of  him,  for  I  responded  to  his 
salute  and  we  walked  on  a  way  together. 

His  trousers  were  originally  bright  blue  homespun,  but  they 
had  long  since  seen  their  good  times,  and  were  now  variegated 
with  patches  of  many  colors — particularly  about  the  "seat," 
which  was  of  the  style  that  tailors  call  "baggy."  His  vest  was 
of  a  spotted  dirt  color,  and  of  a  cut  like  those  you  see  worn 

>  From  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  June  28, 1851. 

This  letter  and  that  on  pp.  255-259  (post,  I)  were  signed  "Paumanok."  Cf.  "Complete 
Prose,"  p.  335;  infra,  p.  180,  note  2;  post,  II,  277-278. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  251 

by  Turkish  slaves,  or  by  "supes"  in  a  melo-drama,  at  the 
Bowery  Theatre.  Its  points  hung  down  in  front.  The  figure 
of  the  old  man  was  short,  squat  and  round-shouldered,  but  of 
Herculean  bone  and  muscle.  His  hair  was  not  very  gray,  and 
he  showed  palpable  signs  of  strength. 

But  his  hat!  It  was  a  hat  which  I  am  sorry  now  I  did  not 
buy  up  and  present  to  one  of  the  Broadway  "merchants"  in 
that  line,  or  to  the  eating  house  near  the  Fulton  ferry,  whose 
window  has  such  amusing  curiosities.  It  was  a  truly  wonder- 
ful hat!  It  was  not  a  large  hat;  neither  could  it  have  been  called 
a  small  hat.  It  was  unquestionably  a  very  old  hat,  however. 
It  had  probably  stood  the  storms  of  many  winters,  and  the  sun 
of  many  summers.  Yet  it  held  itself  tolerably  erect,  with 
various  undulations  and  depressions  in  its  surface;  but  an  un- 
fortunate paucity  of  brim.  True,  there  was  an  apology  for  a 
brim,  but  it  was  a  very  narrow  apology.  It  was  laughable 
to  see  that  hat! 

While  the  old  man  was  telling  us  that  he  owned  a  certain 
windmill,  which  we  were  then  and  there  passing,  and  that  he 
was  now  on  his  way  to  get  a  basket  of  soft  clams,  for  bait  to  catch 
fish,  a  waggon  came  along,  in  which  he  was  furnished  with  a 
ride,  and  so  left  us. 

The  Road — The  Bridge — The  Fish 

The  various  windows  of  Rocky  Point  doubtless  exhibit  a 
flitting  array  of  heads  on  all  occasions  of  strangers  passing. 
It  was,  therefore,  the  case,  that  our  walk,  for  a  while,  was  quite 
a  public  passage.  Indeed,  had  there  been  a  little  hurrahing,  we 
might,  (my  companion  and  I,)  have  fancied  ourselves  some  dis- 
tinguished people,  taking  the  honors. 

A  bend  in  the  road  brought  us  to  an  old  mill,  on  the  broad 
railing  of  whose  bridge  I  sat  down  to  rest.  Underneath,  as  I 
leaned  over,  I  saw  in  the  stream  myriads  of  little  fish  endeav- 
oring to  get  up,  but  balked  by  an  obstruction,  and  apparently 
in  council,  as  if  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  The  water  was  as  clear 
as  glass. 

Directly  two  or  three  large  eels  crawled  lazily  along,  wriggling 
their  tails,  and  sucking  up  whatever  they  found  on  the  bottom. 
Then  came  a  couple  of  little  black  fish;  after  which  a  real  big 
one,  twenty  inches  long,  opening  his  great  white  mouth,  and 
behaving  in  a  very  hoggish  manner.  Also,  there  were  crabs,  and 
divers  small  fry. 


252  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Had  I  possessed  a  hook  and  line,  there  is  no  telling  what  feats 
might  have  been  performed. 

A  couple  of  rods  from  the  shore,  and  near  at  hand,  was  the  old 
gentleman,  with  the  remarkable  hat;  he  had  arrived  before  us, 
and  was  busily  engaged  with  his  hoe,  digging  a  basket  of  soft 
clams,  "for  bait,"  as  he  said.  He  procured  quite  a  mess  in 
fifteen  minutes,  and  then  brought  them  up,  and  sat  down  on 
the  bridge  by  me,  to  rest  himself. 

A  Colloquy — "Aunt  Rebby" 

Lighting  his  pipe  very  deliberately,  he  proceeded  to  catechise 
me  as  to  my  name,  birth-place,  and  lineage — where  I  was  from 
last,  where  I  was  staying,  what  my  occupation  was,  and  so  on. 
Having  satisfied  himself  on  these  important  points,  I  thought 
it  no  more  than  fair  to  return  the  compliment  in  kind,  and  so 
pitched  into  him. 

He  was  born  on  the  spot  where  he  now  lived;  that  very  same 
Rocky  Point.  He  was  sixty-seven  years  old.  For  twenty 
years  he  had  kept  a  butcher's  stall  in  Fly  Market,  in  New  York, 
and  left  that  business  to  move  back  on  the  "old  homestead." 

He  volunteered  the  information  that  he  was  a  Universalist  in 
his  religious  belief,  and  asked  my  opinion  upon  the  merits  of 
the  preachers  of  that  faith,  Mr.  Chapin,  Mr.  Thayer,  Mr.  Balch, 
and  others.  He  also  commenced  what  he  probably  intended  for 
a  religious  argument;  and  there  was  no  other  way  than  for  me  to 
stop  him  off,  by  direct  inquiries  into  the  state  of  his  family 
and  his  real  estate. 

He  was  "well  off"  in  both  respects,  possessing  a  farm  of 
over  a  hundred  acres,  running  from  the  turnpike  to  the 
Sound,  and  being  the  father  of  numerous  sons  and  daughters. 
He  expatiated  on  the  merits  of  his  land  at  great  length;  and 
was  just  going  into  those  of  his  bodily  offspring,  when  our  con- 
fab was  fated  to  receive  a  sudden  interruption.  For  at  this 
moment  came  along  an  old  woman  with  a  little  tin  kettle  in  her 
hand. 

"Aunt  Rebby,"  at  once  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman,  "don't 
you  know  me  ? " 

But  Aunt  Rebby  seemed  oblivious. 

"Is  it  possible  you  don't  know  me?  Why  we've  bussed  one 
another  many  a  time  in  our  young  days!" 

A  new  light  broke  upon  the  dim  eyes  of  the  old  dame. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  253 

"Why  Uncle  Dan'l!"  cried  she,  "can  this  be  you?" 

Uncle  Dan'l  averred  that  it  wasn't  any  body  else.  And  then 
ensued  a  long  gossip,  of  which  I  was  the  edified  and  much- 
amused  hearer.  They  had  not  met  each  other,  it  seems,  for 
years,  and  there  needed  to  be  a  long  interchange  of  news. 

"What  a  fine  mess  of  clams  you've  got,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"Yes,"  responded  Uncle  Dan'l. 

"But  I,"  rejoined  the  old  lady,  in  a  mournful  voice — "I  have 
no  body  to  dig  clams  for  me  now." 

"No,  I  s'pose  not,"  said  the  other  composedly;  "your  boys 
are  all  gone  now." 

Supposing  that  the  "boys"  had  emigrated  to  California,  or 
married  and  moved  off,  I  ventured  an  inquiry  as  to  where  they 
had  gone. 

Three  young  men,  all  the  sons  of  the  old  woman,  had  died  of 
consumption.     The  last  was  buried  only  a  short  time  before. 

Old  times  were  talked  of.  Aunt  Rebby  expressed  it  as  her 
positive  opinion  that  the  young  folks  of  the  present  day  don't 
enjoy  half  as  much  fun  as  the  young  folks  of  fifty  years  ago,  and  a 
little  longer,  did.  She  was  seventy  years  old,  and  remembered 
the  days  of  General  Washington.  Those  were  jovial  times,  but 
now  "it  was  all  pride,  fashion  and  ceremony." 

At  the  mention  of  pride,  Uncle  Dan'l  interrupted  her  with  an 
invitation  to  look  at  him  and  his  apparel,  and  say  whether  he 
furnished  any  exhibition  of  that  vice. 

We  Return  Homeward 

The  afternoon  being  now  pretty  far  advanced,  Aunt  Rebby 
wended  on  her  way  towards  the  east;  and  the  old  man,  with  I 
and  my  companion,  turned  our  courses  westward.  The  old 
fellow  shouldered  his  heavy  basket,  which  dripped  down  his 
back. 

I  made  him  tell  me  the  personal  history  of  the  affairs  of  each 
family,  as  we  passed  the  houses  on  our  way.  But,  although  I 
was  much  amused  and  interested  with  the  narration,  perhaps 
your  readers  wouldn't  be,  and  so  I  pass  it  by. 

About  twenty-eight  months  ago,  the  old  man's  two  eldest 
sons,  the  one  of  33,  the  other  24  years  of  age,  had  sailed  off 
in  the  new  and  fine  sloop  "Long  Island,"  bound  for  some  port 
nearly  down  to  Florida.  He  had  never  heard  from  them  since. 
They  were  lost  in  a  terrible  storm  that  came  up  while  they 


254  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

were  out  at  sea.     They  owned  half  the  sloop,  which  was  worth 
$5000. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  old  fellow's  house,  he  invited  us  in 
and  treated  us  to  good  berries.  And  so,  at  sundown,  we  had  a 
nice  cool  walk  of  three  miles,  back  to  our  quarters. 


A  PLEA  FOR  WATER1 

With  all  the  vaunted  beauty  and  wholesomeness  of  Brook- 
lyn, as  a  place  of  residence,  our  having  no  water  better  than 
pump-water,  is  enough  to  put  us  down  below  twenty  other 
places,  otherwise  every  way  inferior  to  us.  Reader,  have  you 
ever  thought  what  this  pump  stuff  really  is? 

Imagine  all  the  accumulations  of  filth  in  a  great  city — not 
merely  the  slops  and  rottenness  thrown  in  the  streets  and  by- 
ways (and  never  thoroughly  carried  away) — but  the  number- 
less privies,  cess-pools,  sinks  and  gulches  of  abomination — the 
perpetual  replenishing  of  all  this  mass  of  effete  matter — the 
unnameable  and  immeasurable  dirt  that  is  ever,  ever,  ever  fil- 
tered into  the  earth,  through  its  myriad  pores,  and  which  as 
surely  finds  its  way  to  the  neighborhood  of  pump-water,  and 
into  pump-water,  as  that  a  drop  of  poison  put  in  one  part  of 
the  vascular  system,  gets  into  the  whole  system.  Think  of  a 
drink,  compounded  of  all  these,  and  hardly  one  part  of  it  clear, 
pure,  and  natural.  Think  of  this  delectable  mixture  being 
daily  and  hourly  taken  into  our  stomachs,  our  veins,  our 
blood. 

The  report  of  the  Committee  of  Inquiry  who  recommended 
the  Croton  Aqueduct  (a  far  nobler  token  for  New  York  than 
even  her  steamships,  with  the  Trinity  Churches  to  boot,) 
showed  enough  facts,  and  demonstrated  realities  coming  home 
to  the  experience  of  every  body  who  drinks  water,  to  horrify 
the  strongest  stomach  that  ever  existed  within  human  ribs!  I 
would  have  some  Brooklyn  paper  get,  and  reprint,  the  essential 
parts  of  that  report.8 

Every  few  months  there  is  much  ados  about  swill-milk;  (and 

»This  is  a  signed  article  in  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Advertizer,  June  28,  1851.  Whitman 
prided  himself  on  the  efforts  he  had  put  forth  to  secure  for  Brooklyn  a  good  system  of 
water  works  (see  "Diary  in  Canada,"  pp.  64-65;  Ostrander,  loc.  cit,  II,  p.  89).  Whit- 
man's brother  Jeff  was  employed  by  "  Chief  Kirkwood  "  in  the  survey  for  and  the  con- 
struction of  the  Brooklyn  water  works  (see  "  Complete  Prose,"  p.  513). 

•As  Whitman  himself  had  done  in  the  Eagle,  July  1, 1846. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  1.5$ 

the  more  that  manufacture  is  shown  up  the  better).  And  every 
body  knows  that  rum,  in  all  its  varieties,  is  the  declared  foe  of  a 
large  class  of  our  people;  and,  for  our  part,  the  more  they  cry 
aloud  and  belabor  the  enemy,  the  better  luck  I  wish  them. 
But  rum  and  bad  milk  are  not  as  nasty  as  city  pump-water; 
which  is  truly  the  most  stinking  and  villainous  liquid  known, 
upon  land  or  sea. 

This  hot  weather,  if  you  let  a  pail  of  pump-water  stand  a 
couple  of  hours,  any  sensitive  nose  must  turn  away,  when  the 
mouth  under  it  drinks  thereof.1 

An  abundant  supply  of  clean,  sweet,  soft,  wholesome  water! 
I  can  conceive  of  no  physical  comfort  more  important.  It  is  not 
only  wanted  for  drinking,  but  for  bathing,  washing,  cooking, 
sprinkling  and  cleaning  streets,  and  so  on.  It  is  wanted  to  save 
this  half-wooden  city  from  ruinous  conflagrations.  Say,  you 
heroic  dare-devils  who  man  the  engines,  how  often  have  you 
been  balked  and  dismayed,  less  by  the  furious  flames  than  by 
the  absence  of  water  to  put  them  out?  I  have  still  more  to 
say  another  time.2 


LETTERS  FROM  PAUMANOK 

[No.  3Y 

Brooklyn,  August  II. 

The  hot  day4  was  over  at  last;  though  the  opera  at  Castle 
Garden  did  not  commence  till  eight;  and  even  had  it  not  been 
leisure  enough  and  to  spare,  was  there  any  escape  from  those 
imperial  commands  in  the  west?  So  with  wool-hat  crushed  in 
my  hand  behind  me,  for  the  sundown  breezes  felt  good,  there 
on  old  "  Clover  Hill, "  (modernized  Brooklyn  Heights,)  I  took  my 
time,  and  expanded  to  the  glory  spread  over  heaven  and  earth. 

Sails  of  sloops  bellied  gracefully  upon  the  river,  with  mellower 
light  and  deepened  shadows.  And  the  dark  and  glistening 
water  formed  an  undertone  to  the  play  of  vehement  color  above. 

*  Unfortunately,  Whitman  does  not  explain  how  this  feat  is  to  be  accomplished. 

*I  can  find  no  other  signed  articles  on  the  subject  in  the  Advertizer,  nor  any  other 
that  is  clearly  Whitman's;  but  the  subject  was  frequently  aired  during  his  editorship 
of  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Times. 

From  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  August  14,  18  51. 

It  was  reprinted,  in  part,  in  my  article  "Walt  Whitman  at  Thirty-One"  in  the  New 
York  Evening  Post  Book  Review,  Saturday,  June  26,  1920. 

*"La  Favorita"  was  produced  at  the  Castle  Garden  on  Friday  evening,  August  8. 


256  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

Rapidly,  an  insatiable  greediness  grew  within  me  for  brighter 
and  stronger  hues;  oh,  brighter  and  stronger  still.  It  seemed 
as  if  all  that  the  eye  could  bear,  were  unequal  to  the  fierce  vo- 
racity of  my  soul  for  intense,  glowing  color. 

And  yet  there  were  the  most  choice  and  fervid  fires  of  the 
sunset,  in  their  brilliancy  and  richness  almost  terrible. 

Have  not  you,  too,  at  such  a  time,  known  this  thirst  of  the 
eye?  Have  not  you,  in  like  manner,  while  listening  to  the 
well-played  music  of  some  band  like  Maretzek's,1  felt  an  over- 
whelming desire  for  measureless  sound — a  sublime  orchestra 
of  a  myriad  orchestras — a  colossal  volume  of  harmony,  in  which 
the  thunder  might  roll  in  its  proper  place;  and  above  it,  the  vast, 
pure  Tenor, — identity  of  the  Creative  Power  itself — rising 
through  the  universe,  until  the  boundless  and  unspeakable  ca- 
pacities of  that  mystery,  the  human  soul,  should  be  filled  to 
the  uttermost,  and  the  problem  of  human  cravingness  be  satis- 
fied and  destroyed?2 

Of  this  sort  are  the  promptings  of  good  music  upon  me. 
How  is  it  possible,  that  among  the  performers  there,  with  their 
instruments,  are  some  who  can  jest,  and  giggle,  and  look  flip- 
pantly over  the  house  meanwhile?  And  even  good  singers 
upon  the  stage  beyond  them,  you  may  see  presently,  who 
will  mar  their  parts  with  quizzing  and  ill-timed  smiles,  and  looks 
of  curiosity  at  the  amount  of  their  audience. 

Come,  I  will  not  talk  to  you  as  to  one  of  the  superficial  crowd 
who  saunter  here  because  it  is  a  fashion;  who  take  opera  glasses 
with  them,  and  make  you  sick  with  shallow  words,  upon  the 
sublimest  and  most  spiritual  of  the  arts.  I  will  trust  you 
with  confidence;  I  will  divulge  secrets. 

The  delicious  music  of  "the  Favorite,"  is  upon  us.  Grad- 
ually, we  see  not  this  huge  ampitheatre,  nor  the  cropped  heads 
and  shaved  faces  of  the  men;  nor  coal-skuttle  bonnets;  nor  hear 
the  rattle  of  fans,  nor  even  the  ill-bred  chatter.  We  see  the 
groves  of  a  Spanish  convent,  and  the  procession  of  monks;  we 
hear  the  chant,  now  dim  and  faint,  then  swelling  loudly,  and  then 
again  dying  away  among  the  trees.  The  aged  Superior  and 
the  young  Fernando,  we  see.  In  answer  to  the  old  man's  re- 
bukes and  questions,  we  hear  the  story  of  love. 

1  Max  Maretzek,  manager  of  the  Opera  House  in  New  York,  and  author  of  "  Crotchets 
and  Quavers,  or  Revelations  of  an  Opera  Manager  in  America,"  1855. 

2Cf.  post,  II,  p.  85. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  257 

Those  fresh  vigorous  tones  of  Bettini! — I  have  often  wished 
to  know  this  man,  for  a  minute,  that  I  might  tell  him  how  much 
of  the  highest  order  of  pleasure  he  has  conferred  upon  me. 
His  voice  has  often  affected  me  to  tears.  Its  clear,  firm,  won- 
derfully exalting  notes,  filling  and  expanding  away;  dwelling  like 
a  poised  lark  up  in  heaven;  have  made  my  very  soul  tremble. — 
Critics  talk  of  others  who  are  more  perfectly  artistical — yes,  as 
the  well-shaped  marble  is  artistical.  But  the  singing  of  this  man 
has  breathing  blood  within  it;  the  living  soul,  of  which  the 
lower  stage  they  call  art,  is  but  the  shell  and  sham.1 

Yes,  let  me  dwell  a  moment  here.  After  travelling  through 
the  fifteen  years'  display  in  this  city,  of  musical  celebrities, 
from  Mrs.  Austin2  up  to  Jenny  Lind,3  from  Old  Bull4  on  to 
conductor  Benedict,5  with  much  fair  enjoyment  of  the  talent  of 
all;  none  have  thoroughly  satisfied,  overwhelmed  me,  but  this 
man.  Never  before  did  I  realize  what  an  indescribable  volume 
of  delight  the  recesses  of  the  soul  can  bear  from  the  sound  of  the 
honied  perfection  of  the  human  voice.  The  manly  voice  it 
must  be,  too.  The  female  organ,  however  curious  and  high, 
is  but  as  the  pleasant  moonlight. 

The  Swedish  Swan,6  with  all  her  blandishments,  never  touched 
my  heart  in  the  least.  I  wondered  at  so  much  vocal  dexterity; 
and  indeed  they  were  all  very  pretty,  those  leaps  and  double 
somersets.  But  even  in  the  grandest  religious  airs,  genuine 
masterpieces  as  they  are,  of  the  German  composers,  executed 
by  this  strangely  overpraised  woman  in  perfect  scientific  style, 
let  critics  say  what  they  like,  it  was  a  failure;  for  there  was  a 
vacuum  in  the  head  of  the  performance.  Beauty  pervaded  it 
no  doubt,  and  that  of  a  high  order.  It  was  the  beauty  of  Adam 
before  God  breathed  into  his  nostrils. 

Let  us  return  to  Balthazar,  and  his  prophetic  announcements. 
"Ah,  Fernando,"  we  hear  him  say,  "this  magnificent  world, 
which  allures  you,  is  deceptive  and  false.     The  angel  you  now 

*Cf.  infra,  pp.  104-106. 

*A  grand  opera  singer  of  the  early  i83o's. 

'Jenny  Lind  took  New  York  by  storm  with  her  singing  at  the  Castle  Garden  in  1850, 
under  the  management  of  P.  T.  Barnum. 

«01e  Bornemann  Bull  (1810-1880),  a  Norwegian  violinist  famous  for  his  technical 
skill,  who  came  to  America  five  times,  and  who,  for  a  short  period  in  1855,  managed  the 
New  York  Academy  of  Music. 

"Sir  Julius  Benedict  (1 804-1 885),  a  prominent  operatic  conductor  from  London,  who 
conducted  for  Jenny  Lind  on  her  American  tours. 

6The  "Swedish  nightingale,"  Jenny  Lind.     (Cf.  "  Complete  Prose,"  p.  516.) 


258  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

love  may  prove  treacherous.  Yes,  tossed  by  tempests,  you  will 
gladly  seek  again  this  haven  of  peace." 

I  always  thought  the  plot  of  the  "Favorite"  a  peculiarly 
well-proportioned  and  charming  story.  It  is  a  type  of  the  ex- 
perience of  the  human  kind,  and,  like  Shakspeare's  dramas, 
its  moral  is  world-wide. 

Fernando,  young,  enthusiastic,  full  of  manly  vigor,  and  at  the 
same  time  of  tenderness,  trusted  and  loved  a  beautiful  unknown 
woman.  She,  Leonara  [Leonora],  though  the  favorite  and  mis- 
tress of  the  king,  returned  the  young  man's  love.  Thus,  he 
would  not  complete  the  burial  of  himself  among  the  priesthood. 
He  left  the  convent,  and  having  received  from  Leonara  a  com- 
mission of  rank  in  the  army,  joined  the  camp,  and  rendered  such 
important  services,  that  the  king,  in  person,  thanked  him  before 
the  court.  He,  however,  abruptly  discovered  the  amour  be- 
tween his  favorite  and  the  young  officer. 

The  king's  own  love  was  faithful,  but  the  Papal  court  inter- 
fered, and  Leonara  confessing  her  genuine  attachment  to  Fer- 
nando, the  royal  consent  sealed  their  marriage.  Previously 
to  this,  the  disgraced  woman  had  sent  her  lover  a  true  account 
of  herself;  but  it  was  intercepted,  and  Fernando  immediately 
afterwards  found  that  his  idol  was  the  cast-off  mistress  of  the 
king. 

All  the  indignant  passions  of  his  soul  then  broke  forth.  He 
upbraided  the  king  with  such  perfidy,  tore  the  golden  order 
from  his  neck,  broke  his  sword,  and  cast  it  at  the  monarch's 
feet,  and  retired  in  a  fury  of  sorrow  and  disappointment,  back 
into  the  shadows  from  which  he  had  sallied  forth  into  the  world. 

Now  we  approach  the  close  of  the  legend.  We  see  again 
the  dark  groves  of  the  convent.  Up  through  the  venerable  trees 
peal  the  strains  of  the  chanting  voices.  Oh,  sweet  music  of 
Donizetti,  how  can  men  hesitate  what  rank  to  give  you ! 

With  his  pale  face  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  kneels  the  returned 
novice,  his  breast  filled  with  a  devouring  anguish,  his  eyes 
showing  the  death  that  has  fallen  upon  his  soul.  The  strains  of 
death,  too,  come  plaintively  from  his  lips.  Never  before  did 
you  hear  such  wonderful  gushing  sorrow,  poured  forth  like  ebb- 
ing blood,  from  a  murdered  heart.  Is  it  for  peace  he  prays  with 
that  appealing  passion?  Is  it  the  story  of  his  own  sad  wreck  he 
utters? 

Listen.  Pure  and  vast,  that  voice  now  rises,  as  on  clouds,  to 
the  heaven  where  it  claims  audience.    Now,  firm  and  unbroken, 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  259 

it  spreads  like  an  ocean  around  us.  Ah,  welcome  that  I  know 
not  the  mere  language  of  the  earthly  words  in  which  the  melody 
is  embodied;  as  all  words  are  mean  before  the  language  of 
true  music. 

Thanks,  great  artist.  For  one,  at  least,  it  is  no  extravagance 
to  say,  you  have  justified  his  ideal  of  the  loftiest  of  the  arts. 
Thanks,  limner  of  the  spirit  of  life,  and  hope  and  peace;  of  the 
red  fire  of  passion,  the  cavernous  vacancy  of  despair,  and  the 
black  pall  of  the  grave. 

I  write  as  I  feel;  and  I  feel  that  there  are  not  a  few  who  will 
pronounce  a  Yes  to  my  own  confession. 


SUNDAY  RESTRICTIONS1 

Memorial  in  Behalf  of  a  Freer  Municipal  Government, 
and  Against  Sunday  Restrictions 

To  the  Common  Council  and  Mayor  of  the  City  of  Brooklyn: 

With  great  respect,  I  present  you  the  following  considerations 
on  the  subject  of  Sunday  Restrictions,  and  Municipal  Policy; 
and  ask,  in  behalf  of  myself  and  many  other  citizens,  the  per- 
manent suspension  of  the  clause  against  running  the  City 
Railcars  every  seventh  day;  and  that  all  ordinances  and  move- 
ments to  compel,  by  arrests,  imprisonments  and  fines,  the  re- 
ligious observance  of  the  Sabbath,  be  repealed  and  desisted  from; 
and,  in  general  terms,  that  the  government  of  Brooklyn  take  a 
more  expanded  scale  and  more  uniformity  and  spirit. 

»From  the  Brooklyn  Evening  Star,  October  20,  1854.  Reprinted  in  the  Conservator, 
November,  1903,  Vol.  XIV,  p.  135. 

The  editor  of  the  Star  prefaced  the  memorial  with  these  remarks:  "We  have  received 
from  their  author,  Walter  Whitman,  a  copy  of  his  memorial  to  the  Common  Council  and 
Mayor,  on  some  general  and  some  special  topics.  As  this  is  a  time  when  the  matters 
it  treats  of  are  attracting  considerable  attention,  and  this  paper  desires  to  give  a  full 
field  for  discussion,  we  lay  the  memorial  before  our  readers,  for  them  to  judge  for  them- 
selves." 

The  memorial  itself  was  presented  to  the  Council  on  October  16  by  Alderman  Fowler. 
Apparently  no  action  was  taken  on  it. 

The  present  memorial  records  no  particular  development  in  Whitman's  conception 
of  the  proper  function  of  government,  being  rather  an  application  of  political  theories 
set  forth  some  seven  years  before  (see  infra,  pp.  166-168);  but,  appearing  in  1854,  it 
has  a  special  significance  in  proving  that  its  author  was  not  so  intent  upon  the  creation 
of  the  poetry  of  democracy  to  be  published  the  following  year  as  himself  to  neglect  what 
he  considered  the  rights  and  duties  of  a  citizen  of  a  democratic  country.  Cf.  "Song  of 
the  Broad-Axe,"  1856,  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  1917, 1, 228-230. 

It  is  highly  probable  that  an  article  in  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Times  (March  14,  1857) 
arguing  for  Sunday  cars  and  signed  "W.  W."  was  also  written  by  Whitman.  But  in 
such  a  collection  as  this,  one  essay  must  stand  for  both. 


260  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

The  security,  peace,  and  decorum  of  the  City  are  in  charge 
of  the  authorities  at  all  times,  and  are  never  to  be  intermitted 
any  day  of  the  week  or  year.  It  is  likewise  proper  that  they 
protect  to  every  individual  and  religious  congregation  his  or  its 
right  to  worship,  reasonably  free  from  any  noise  or  molestation. 

The  mere  shutting  off  from  the  general  body  of  the  citizens 
the  popular  and  cheap  conveyance  of  the  City  Railroads,  the 
very  day  when  experience  proves  they  want  it  most,  and  the 
obstinate  direction  of  the  whole  executive  and  police  force  of 
Brooklyn  into  a  contest  with  the  keepers  of  public  houses,  news 
depots,  cigar  shops,  bakeries,  confectionary  and  eating  saloons, 
and  other  places,  whether  they  shall  open  or  close  on  Sunday, 
are  not  in  themselves  matters  of  all  engrossing  importance. 
The  stoppage  of  the  Railcars  causes  much  vexation  and  weari- 
ness to  many  families,  especially  in  any  communication  to  and 
from  East  Brooklyn,  Williamsburg,  Greenpoint,  Bushwick,  New 
Brooklyn,  Bedford  and  Greenwood;  and  both  stoppages  do  no 
earthly  good.  But  beneath  this  the  blunder  rises  from  some- 
thing deeper. — These  restrictions  are  part  of  a  radical  mis- 
take about  the  policy  and  lawful  power  of  an  American  City 
Government. 

No  attempts  of  the  sort  can  be  so  trivial,  but  they  lead  to 
the  discussion  of  principles.  The  true  American  doctrine  is  not 
that  the  legislative  assemblage  of  the  City  or  State  or  Nation 
is  possessed  of  total  wisdom  and  guardianship  over  the  people, 
and  can  entertain  any  proposition,  and  try  it  on  just  when  and 
how  they  like.  The  office  of  Alderman  or  Mayor  or  Legislator 
is  strictly  the  office  of  an  agent.  This  agent  is  faithfully  and 
industriously  to  perform  a  few  plainly  written  and  specified 
duties.  He  is  not  so  continually  to  go  meddling  with  the 
master's  personal  affairs  or  morals.  Such  is  the  American  doc- 
trine, and  the  doctrine  of  common  sense.1 

Shallow  people,  possessed  with  zeal  for  any  particular  cause, 
make  it  a  great  merit  to  run  to  and  fro  after  special  prohibitions 
that  shall  fix  the  case,  and  emasculate  sin  out  of  our  houses  and 
streets.  Alas,  gentlemen,  the  civilized  world  has  been  over- 
whelmed with  prohibitions  for  many  hundred  years.  We  do 
not  want  prohibitions.     What  is  always  wanted,,  is  a  few  strong- 

1This  is  an  early  statement  of  the  doctrine  "Resist  much,  obey  little"  which  Whitman 
shared  with  Emerson  and,  of  course,  with  the  States'  Rights  party  as  well.  Cf.  his  utter- 
ances on  slavery  and  free-soil.  Cf.  also  the  poems  "  Poem  of  Remembrance  for  a  Girl 
or  a  Boy  of  These  States"  (in  McKay  Edition,  1900,  pp.  510-51 1;  first  published  in 
1856)  and  "To  the  States"  (1917  Edition,  I,  p.  10). 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  261 

handed,  big-brained,   practical,  honest  men,  at   the  head  of 
affairs. 

The  true  friends  of  the  Sabbath  and  of  its  purifying  and  ele- 
vating influences,  and  of  the  many  excellent  physical  and  other 
reforms  that  mark  the  present  age,  are  not  necessarily  those  who 
complacently  put  themselves  forward,  and  seek  to  carry  the 
good  through  by  penalties  and  stoppages,  and  arrests  and  fines. 

The  true  friends  of  elevation  and  reform  are  the  friends  of 
the  fullest  rational  liberty.  For  there  is  this  vital  and  anti- 
septic power  in  liberty,  that  it  tends  forever  and  ever  to 
strengthen  what  is  good  and  erase  what  is  bad. 

For  the  City  or  State  to  become  the  overseer  and  dry  nurse 
of  a  man,  and  coerce  him,  any  further  than  before  mentioned, 
into  how  he  must  behave  himself,  and  when  and  whither  he 
must  travel,  and  by  what  conveyance,  or  what  he  shall  be  per- 
mitted to  use  or  dispose  of  on  certain  days  of  the  week,  and 
what  forced  to  disuse,  would  be  to  make  a  poor  thing  of  a  man. 
In  such  matters,  the  American  sign-posts  turn  in  the  same  di- 
rection for  all  grades  of  our  government.  The  citizen  must 
have  room.  He  must  learn  to  be  so  muscular  and  self-pos- 
sessed; to  rely  more  on  the  restrictions  of  himself  than  any 
restrictions  of  statute  books,  or  city  ordinances,  or  police. 
This  is  the  feeling  that  will  make  live  men  and  superior  women. 
This  will  make  a  great,  athletic,  spirited  city,  of  noble  and 
marked  character,  with  a  reputation  for  itself  wherever  rail- 
roads run,  and  ships  sail,  and  newspapers  and  books  are  read. 

The  old  landmarks  of  the  law,  established  and  needed  to 
preserve  life,  liberty  and  property,  are  always  good,  and  never 
denied  by  any  body.  Beyond  them,  what  the  people  actually 
wish  of  those  they  commission  in  office  is,  the  direct  perform- 
ance of  a  small  number  of  distinct  and  incumbent  duties, 
coming  home  to  the  necessity  and  benefit  of  all  hands,  and 
about  which  there  is  also  no  dispute.  If  those  in  office  would 
do  these  duties,  and  do  them  well,  it  would  take  up  their  en- 
tire time,  and  give  the  public  a  satisfaction  and  pleasure  they 
have  never  yet  experienced. 

I  have  also,  gentlemen,  with  perfect  respect,  to  remind 
you,  and  through  you  to  remind  others,  including  those,  whoever 
they  may  be,  who  desire  to  be  your  successors,  or  to  hold  any 
office,  prominent  or  subordinate,  in  the  City  Government,  of 
the  stern  demand,  in  all  parts  of  this  Republic,  for  a  better, 
purer,  more  generous  and  comprehensive  administration  of  the 


262  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

affairs  of  cities;  a  demand  in  which  I,  in  common  with  the  quite 
entire  body  of  my  fellow-citizens  and  fellow  tax-payers  of 
Brooklyn,  cordially  join. — We  believe  the  mighty  interests  of 
so  many  people,  and  so  much  life  and  wealth,  should  be  far 
less  at  the  sport  or  dictation  of  caucuses  and  cabals.  We 
would  have  nothing  hoggish  or  exclusive.  We  wish  to  see 
municipal  legislation  not  so  much  stifled  by  little  ideas  and 
aims,  or  the  absence  of  ideas  and  aims.1 

I  would  suggest  to  no  locality  a  reconstruction  too  far  off. 
I  do  not  think  so  highly  of  what  is  to  be  done  at  the  Capitols 
of  Washington  or  Albany.  Here,  it  is  enough  for  us  to  attend 
to  Brooklyn.  There  is  indeed  nowhere  any  better  scope  for 
practically  exhibiting  the  full-sized  American  idea,  than  in  a 
great,  free,  proud,  American  City.  Most  of  our  cities  are 
huge  aggregates  of  people,  riches,  and  enterprise.  The  ave- 
nues, edifices  and  furniture  are  splendid;  but  what  is  that  to 
splendor  of  character?  To  encourage  the  growth  of  trade  and 
property  is  commendable;  but  our  politics  might  also  encour- 
age the  forming  of  men  of  superior  demeanor,  and  less  shuf- 
fling and  blowing. 

Marked  as  the  size,  numbers,  elegance,  and  respectability 
of  Brooklyn  have  become,  a  more  lasting  and  solid  glory  of 
this  or  any  community  must  always  be  in  personal,  and  might 
be,  in  municipal  qualities.  Out  of  these  in  ancient  times,  a 
few  thousand  men  made  the  names  of  their  cities  immortal. 
The  free  and  haughty  democracies  of  some  of  those  old  towns, 
not  one  third  our  size  of  population,  rated  themselves  on 
equal  terms  with  powerful  kingdoms,  and  are  preserved  in 
literature,  and  the  admiration  of  the  earth. 

The  Consolidated  City  of  Brooklyn  will  commence  well. 
Its  start  need  not  be  clogged  by  anything  embarrassing  or 
lowering.  Its  beauty  of  site,  cleanliness  and  health  will  never 
be  surpassed  by  any  city,  old  or  new.  Its  historical  remi- 
niscences are  more  interesting  than  those  on  the  Continent  it- 
self— the  whole  or  any  of  them.  Here  was  expended  the  keen- 
est anguish,  and  the  larger  half  of  the  blood  and  death  of  the 
American  Revolution. 

The  citizens  and  government  may  well  accept  the  spirit 
of  its  old  days,  and  calculate  our  future  on  those  large  and 
patriotic  premises.  Early  visited  by  the  Dutch,  our  founders, 
who   here  planted   their  wholesome  physical,   political   and 

1  Cf.  post,  II,  pp.  252-153. 


PROSE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  263 

moral  peculiarities — soon  interfused  with  Anglo-Saxon  mind  and 
tendency  to  expansion — cheerfully  receiving  all  honest  and  in- 
dustrious comers,  and  resolving  them  into  the  general  American 
type — the  two  ancient  settlements  of  Brooklyn  and  Bush  wick 
have  sped  onward,  counting  less  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  houses 
at  the  commencement  of  the  present  century,  to  what  they  now 
are,  and  to  advance  still  faster  under  a  combined  impetus. 

Every  thing  about  the  new  phases  of  these  old  towns  sig- 
nifies their  unavoidable  and  harmonious  progress,  merged  into 
one,  on  the  grandest  scale.  In  the  returns  of  inhabitants  at 
the  last  authorized  census,  Brooklyn,  Williamsburg,  Green- 
point  and  Bushwick  together  contained  as  many  as  either  one 
of  the  three  States  of  California,  Delaware,  or  Rhode  Island, 
and  considerably  more  than  either  one  of  the  first  two.  The 
young  men  are  now  walking  among  us  who  will  see  consoli- 
dated Brooklyn  a  vast  community  of  a  million  souls,  and  not 
merely  one  of  the  leading  cities  of  this  republic,  but  one  of  the 
greatest  on  the  globe.1  It  is  time  that  its  municipal  character 
and  views  should  be  big  and  progressive  in  proportion. 

With  its  population  of  200,000  as  consolidated — with  a 
stretch  of  eight  miles  between  its  northeastern  and  south- 
western points,  and  six  miles  between  its  northwestern  and 
southeastern  ones — with  its  majestic  river,  unsurpassed  by 
any  that  flows — its  imposing  heights,  its  shores,  wharves,  ele- 
vations, and  the  diversified  surface  of  its  eighteen  roomy 
wards — its  popular  schools,  and  scores  upon  scores  of  churches, 
many  of  them  of  the  grandest  style  of  architecture  and  orna- 
ment— its  solemn,  ample,  and  appropriate  cemeteries,  con- 
fessedly the  first  either  in  this  country  or  abroad — its  massive 
National  Dock,  and  workshops  and  enginery  for  constructing 
the  heaviest  metaled  government  ships — the  Atlantic  Docks 
and  wharves  also,  with  their  long  range  of  storehouses,  and 
their  sheltered  artificial  harbor — the  busy  ship  yards  of  the 
shores  of  Williamsburg  and  Greenpoint,  employing  many 
hundreds  of  American  mechanics,  the  choicest  breed  for  the 
greatest  city — the  numerous  ferries  running  night  and  day — 
Washington  Park,  embracing*  the  breastworks  of  Fort  Greene, 
and  of  the  imperishable  soil,  the  token  of  our  dismal  battle 
ground — the  tracks  of  railroads,  and  their  cars,  and  the  inter- 
minable lines  of  conveniently  laid  out  and  flagged  streets,  lit 

»A  prophecy  which  was  repeated  seven  years  later  in  the  "Brooklyniana"  (see  post, 
II,  pp.  252,  292),  and  which  has,  of  course,  been  more  than  fulfilled. 


264  THE  UNCOLLECTED  POETRY  AND 

with  gas  at  night — the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  first-class 
private  dwellings,  so  rich  in  their  display  and  sumptuousness, 
the  thousands  upon  thousands  of  the  comfortable  homes  of  the 
free  citizens  and  their  families — and  the  wide  spread  fields  of 
the  outer  wards,  with  our  well  ordered  Public  Institutions, 
Hospitals  and  Jails — and  with  the  endless  surroundings  of  the 
civilization  of  the  nineteenth  century  in  a  land  undisturbed 
by  war  or  any  threatening  evil,  Brooklyn  may  well  be  the  choice 
and  pride  of  her  sons  and  daughters,  and  of  all  who  are  identi- 
fied with  the  place  in  any  public  capacity. 

I  can  think  of  hardly  any  office  of  a  great  city  like  consoli- 
dated Brooklyn  but  what  is  a  dignified  and  responsible  office, 
and  no  field  for  the  narrowness  of  mere  politicians  or  the  end- 
less hangers  on  of  parties.  Neither  legislative,  executive  or 
judicial, — neither  the  duties  of  finance,  police,  law,  fires,  water, 
ferries,  health,  record,  assessments,  streets,  schools,  hospitals, 
repairs,  lands  and  places,  or  what  not,  can  ever  be  attended 
to  by  inferior  men  in  any  other  than  an  inferior  and  mean 
manner.  Especially  for  the  first  citizen,  or  Mayor — especially 
for  Aldermen — especially  for  the  Police,  every  member  of  that 
body,  without  a  single  exception,  Brooklyn  ought  to  show  well- 
developed  men,  the  best  gentlemen,  no  cowards,  always  sober, 
wide-awake  and  civil,  proud  of  the  town  and  devoted  to  it 
and  realizing  in  it  and  in  themselves  the  supreme  merit  of  a 
high  and  courteous  independence.  Every  one  should  be  pos- 
sessed with  the  eternal  American  ideas  of  liberty,  friendliness, 
amplitude  and  courage.  It  is  nonsense  to  fancy  such  fine  traits 
on  a  diffused  and  conspicuous  scale,  as  President  or  Governor, 
and  be  without  them  for  home  consumption.  The  right  sort 
of  spirit  will  exemplify  them  just  as  much  here  directly  at  our 
doors,  or  the  corners  of  the  curbstones,  or  our  City  Hall. 

After  all  is  said,  however,  the  work  of  establishing  and  rais- 
ing the  character  of  cities  of  course  remains  at  last  in  their  origi- 
nal capacity  with  the  people  themselves.  Strictly  speaking, 
when  the  proper  time  comes,  it  comes.  Perhaps  the  citizens 
have  no  right  to  complain  of  being  hampered  and  cheated  and 
overtaxed  and  insulted;  for  they  always  hold  the  remedy  in 
their  own  hands,  and  can  apply  it  whenever  they  like.  I  am 
not  the  man  to  soft-soap  the  people,  any  more  than  I  do 
office-holders;  but  this  I  say  for  them  at  all  times  that  their 
very  credulity  and  repeated  confidence  in  others  are  organic 
signs  of  noble  elements  in  the  national  character. 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


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